


Friends of the Abaisse II

by elementalmystique



Series: Les Amis de l'ABC [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:40:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 35,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementalmystique/pseuds/elementalmystique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuation of the universe from FOTA I.</p><p>Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are both appreciated :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Author's Note

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know everyone might hate me/be mad at me right now, but I'm sorry for not posting as regularly as I used to. This semester has been wild. I mean, I never knew I could get depression, bronchitis, AND the stomach flu (for the first time) all in just 4 months. Well, I had the depression longer than that, but it hit like a crowbar just recently. Also, I promise I was going to write over Thanksgiving break, but then I got sick too. Yay. 

Anyways, I am writing now. Slowly but surely. It's finals coming up but I'll try to post something this weekend. 

I've also just been mentally and emotionally annihilated by the Texting Enjolras Tumblr, so... yeah... And blogs usually never affect me like that... I got through all 346 pages and I am destroyed.

You guys are great. Thank you for sticking with me this long and being patient with me. 

Also I am continuing the FOTA part I in part II because it got far too long (longer than I thought) to make it into just one fic haha. But yes, I fully intend to continue, and I am sorry for the unexpected hiatus. 

XOXOXO everybody (and don't go onto Texting Enjolras, the moderator will destroy you. And I mean that in a nice way... but also a DEVASTATINGLY ANGSTY FEELSY I-AM-GOING-TO-CRY-BECAUSE-THERE-IS-A-BARRICADE-IN-MY-EYE way.)

Chapter 2 will be up soon! And it will be actual writing :)


	2. Thawing Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras attempts to find Celine with the aid of some helpful peoples.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody! Sorry for the late update. Hope you guys enjoy. 
> 
> And I just realized I subconsciously used Aaron Tveit's name ha ha.

Enjolras hates leaving the law and political science building. Or even the humanities building. Apart from his TA job with his English Literature class, he’s teaching all four sections of Dr. Lamarque’s first-level class and both sections of his second-level lecture. Departing these havens means that he has to deal with the rest of the population, which on normal days he wouldn’t mind. However, he isn’t feeling too good — there’s a roughness at the back of his throat that keeps making him cough, and he isn’t feeling hungry or thirsty despite having had nothing all day. The cold weather is making it a little bit annoying to traverse all the way across campus just to have a form signed.

Now that his father’s cut him off, he’s trying to apply for financial aid. This semester isn’t a problem, since his tuition and insurance are all paid off — he just needs to worry about food and utilities and other expenses — but he’s got to worry about the next semester. Hell, he has to worry about _this_ semester and whether he’ll make it through first. Grantaire has taken to reassuring him that things will work out, which is a surprising turn of events, but financial woes are starting to unravel Enjolras’ hard-won calm.

He’s just got the form all printed off yesterday, and he’s here to turn it in at the student center today. He’s really tired, and so he’d honestly like to have Combeferre or Courfeyrac or someone else drop it off for him, but his best friends can’t baby him all the time. He knows that perfectly well, even if he doesn’t want to think for too long about it. He doesn’t know, really, what he’ll do without Combeferre or Courfeyrac or — heaven help him — Grantaire.

Coughing into his elbow, he hurries up the stairs to the third floor. He ducks beneath the arm of a sophomore girl handing out leaflets, glares at the muscular jock who nearly decapitates him with a lacrosse stick, and is accosted by a crowd of freshman girls who giggle and blush in his direction — for what, he has no idea. He looks around to see if he can spot their target, but he can’t see anyone. Then he’s off to the financial office, and all thoughts of passersby leave his mind.

He turns in the form and goes back down the stairs to the main level. He knows he’s sick, but he can’t help it — he’s got more work to do. Maybe when he drops dead of illness can he rest, but it’s not right now, and it won’t be today.

He’s about to walk out the door when his phone vibrates in his pocket with a frustrated buzz.

 

 **R:** You should go say hi to Celine @ Jamba today. I’m in the studio.

 **Enjolras:** How did you know I’m here in the student center?

 **R:** Because you told me you would be going there between your classes today?

 

He did? He really doesn’t remember that. Today he woke up in a sinus fog, so he supposes it wouldn’t be fair for him to recall everything with his usual clarity. It’s the damned flu that Bossuet’s been passing around the Amis, he knows. Only Combeferre, Eponine, and Joly have the immunity strong enough to resist it. Grantaire’s sunk first with Bossuet, then Chetta and Feuilly and Victoire and Bahorel and Jehan and Courf. Cosette and Marius, thankfully, have avoided it, along with the Thenardiers — there must be some wicked good genes there — so Celine and Enjolras are the last. So far Celine seems fine, but Enjolras knows he’s about to bear the full brunt of Joly’s hypochondria, held back over the past two weeks, along with all the Amis babying him. As if he needs to be babied.

 

 **R:** You’re sick, aren’t you? I knew you’d catch this bug at last.

 **Enjolras:** AM NOT. I remember telling you.

 **R:** Pants on fire.

 **Enjolras:** I’m NOT lying.

 **R:** Just shut up and go check up on Celine, and be nice to her. It’s her first day at work. Then come to the studio. You need to go to bed.

 **Enjolras:** No. NO. I have lots of work to do. There is no bed I can go to yet while I have miles to go before I sleep. And promises to keep.

 **R:** Look at you, trying to be all knowledgeable. You are coming over right when you’re done, or else.

 **Enjolras:** Or else what?

 **R:** Or else… you won’t get any.

 **Enjolras:** I’m sick. I won’t get any anyway.

 **R:** Do you want me to continue that threat past your time of illness?

 **Enjolras:** >:(

 **Enjolras:** I hate you.

 **R:** Love you too. Now hurry. You don’t want to be throwing up in the car on your way home. Bahorel didn’t like that one bit.

 

Mumbling under his breath about bossy boyfriends, Enjolras turns around and makes his way slowly back to where the bright lights and even brighter colors of Jamba Juice are waiting for him. The gleaming glass dividers and glossy posters and vivid arrays of snacks and fruits on display are impressive, along with the cleanly wiped counters and blending stations.

The lack of personnel on hand, however, is not.

Enjolras blinks and fists his eyes, trying to clear them from being blurry. He’s fairly certain that he’s not hallucinating the fact that there are no employees stationed here at Jamba Juice, while there are definitely at least five to six potential customers — mainly students — who are skulking around in the vain hopes that someone will emerge from the back.

Maybe they all went on a break. But if so, the Closed sign would be up, and this is cutting into potential customer time. Someone would still be on hand, Enjolras is sure, and that means something is wrong.

“How long has it been since anyone’s been here?” he asks the junior who’s standing with a babble of her friends and they’re all staring with similar, somewhat dreamy expressions at him. She’s one of the students in a section of the classes he teaches, and he’s annoyed to recall that she has a crush on him. Oh, well.

“Maybe ten minutes?”

Courfeyrac’s always said that Enjolras has a splinter of his eternal curiosity buried inside his heart. He’s probably right, because Enjolras isn’t as bad as Courfeyrac — nobody is as bad as Courfeyrac — but right now, Enjolras is going to satisfy his inner question about what’s going on right now, because something is very wrong.

“We’re not allowed back there!” a small blonde girl calls after him.

Enjolras ignores her protest, cautiously trying the handle of the door marked Employees Only. He’s thankful that she doesn’t say anything else — she just shrugs and turns back around to talk to her friends.

When the door swings open, he doesn’t waste any time and goes straight to the manager’s office, where he can hear hammering against the flimsy wooden door. There’s a chair jammed under the doorknob, and a metal rod is jimmed into the frame as well to hold it there. He barely manages to yank the rod and chair out, and when he does, the door bangs open to reveal a middle-aged woman and a young couple in their early twenties. Their hair’s disheveled, their faces dismayed and embarrassed and angry all at once.

“Who are you?” the woman demands. “Were you the one who locked us in?”

Enjolras holds up his hands placatingly as she advances angrily on him. “Ma’am, I’m looking for Celine. I’m dating her brother. Is she here?”

“It’s not him,” the guy says. He looks flustered, and starts tugging at the girl’s hand. “Come on, Sally. We need to call the cops.”

“What do you mean, it’s not me?” Enjolras asks. “And why couldn’t you call the cops in there?”

“They cut the phone line,” Sally answers. “We didn’t have our cell phones in there. Aaron tried the door, but it didn’t give.” She disappears through the door to the sales counter and smoothie stations beyond.

“There were at least two guys,” Aaron adds shakily. “One of them had a gun. The other told us to get into the office, but Celine already wasn’t here. Maybe she went to the bathroom or something, but she isn’t here with us. We didn’t see anybody. I think the guys didn’t know she was here, because they acted like it was just the three of us.”

“Cash registers are empty,” Sally calls from the front. “There are customers here — should I start tending to them?”

“You need to leave, young man,” the woman who’s clearly the manager orders Enjolras. “I need to call campus security.”

 _Fat lot of help it’s going to do you,_ Enjolras thinks. _The people responsible for this are clearly long gone._

“I’m not leaving until I find Celine,” he says flatly. “Please, ma’am. I just need to make sure she’s okay.”

The woman glares at him, but she’s now starting to look worried as well as disgruntled. “It’s just a botched robbery,” she insists, although Enjolras thinks she’s trying to convince herself more than him at this point. “She might be hiding somewhere.”

“I’ll go check the locker room,” Aaron volunteers. “She might have gone there to hide. Sally, will you look in the bathrooms?”

Enjolras feels a little warmer towards Aaron for stepping up, because his initial impression of the kid isn’t all that positive. “Thank you,” he says sincerely.

“I’ll call the cops, then,” the manager decides. “There isn’t anywhere here in the back room that she should be, so if you like, you can stay here and wait for her in case she comes back without Aaron or Sally seeing her.”

 

 **Enjolras:** Your sister is… not here at Jamba. And shit just went down here. We’re all looking for her right now, and they have a no-phones policy, so don’t bother texting her.

 **R:** Motherfucker. I’m coming over right now.

 **Enjolras:** I’m inside the employee back room.

 

He paces back and forth inside the bowels of the Jamba Juice outlet. He’s relieved that the manager has been so willing to help, because something’s deathly wrong somehow, and he’s angry that he can’t figure out where Celine might have gone. If he doesn’t have sick brain like he does now, he knows he can see what’s right in front of his face, but right now he’s stuck.

The manager’s office door is closed, but he can hear the woman’s voice, raised and jumpy, from the other side of it. She’s most likely on the phone. He looks around, noting the massive stainless steel sinks and fridges and appliances. There are more jugs and blenders and containers here than he would have expected. Idly, he pulls open the handle of one steel fridge open to reveal rows of yogurts. The cold air envelopes him, and he shivers, nosing his face back into his scarf and closing the door.

There are two walk-in freezers closest to the front where smoothies are served. Enjolras peeks out from where he’s standing and the girls from earlier wave merrily at him from where they are. He scowls and pulls his head back.

If Celine is not around, and she hasn’t gone to the bathroom — because surely she would have returned by now, or brought security with her — then she’s either gone or somehow incapacitated.

Enjolras forces down any fear at the thought of Grantaire’s own _sister_ being gone, kidnapped or worse. Just imagining Grantaire or any of the other Amis or Alain in the same position makes his knees feel even weaker than they already are, and he knows how angry and scared Grantaire is going to be when he finds out. Desperately he glances around, knowing that if he’s here without a viable reason when the cops come that he might take the fall for everything, but he can’t go. Somehow there’s a reason why he’s feeling so uneasy, why he feels the urge to stay where he is without checking frantically the rest of campus just yet.

Rashly he pokes his head around the corner. He sees the two coworkers and a row of blenders and juice dispensers and the fruit/sherbet holder. Cash register. Counters and a sink with industrial water hose.

No Celine.

 _The walk-in freezer,_ something tells him.

_I don’t work here. Someone will freak out on me._

_Just open the damn freezer and check! It’ll only take a second!_

He opens the door of the closest freezer. Or at least he tries to. The handle gives pretty easily, but the door still doesn’t open. He yanks on it again, and lets out a muttered curse.

The door swings open, and the two Jamba Juice workers return to the back room. Judging from the grave expressions on their faces, they have obviously been unsuccessful in locating Celine, and Enjolras fights back a wave of nausea that he doesn’t think he can completely attribute to his sickness.

“Nothing,” Aaron says redundantly. “Her stuff’s still in the locker.”

“She’s not in the bathrooms or anywhere nearby,” Sally chimes in.

“I know this sounds stupid,” Enjolras says, swallowing his panic down, “but will you indulge me and check these walk-ins?”

Aaron’s eyes grow to the size of silver dollars. He moves forward, letting Enjolras step out of his way, before he yanks hard on the door. It doesn’t budge, and he frowns, shaking his head like he can’t believe what’s happening.

“We never lock our freezers. And there should be —” He trails off halfway, his fingers grabbing uselessly at the latch on the door. Only it’s not a latch; it’s a thick bar of metal that covers the lock. There’s a hole going all the way through it, and that hole is stopped up by a cylindrical piece of metal. There’s a slim metal chain on the floor, which Sally bends down to pick up and dangles from her fingers.

“The pin’s usually put in place,” she explains at Enjolras’ elbow, “but it usually has the chain to pull it out. Now…”

“Now it’s stuck,” Enjolras says, growing realization dawning. He hammers with his fist on the door, but it doesn’t budge. “Celine? Celine!”

There’s no response, and Enjolras digs against the latch with his fingers to somehow drag the pin out. However, even his slim digits are still too big to push the pin out from where it’s jammed into the metal bar. Sally tries, too, and she fails just as spectacularly; with Aaron as big as he is, there’s no point for him to even try.

“Do you have any sort of metal tool?” Enjolras asks, trying to curb his impatience and his fear. “Something with a long tip to push the pin out? Like maybe a screwdriver or something?”

The girl shakes her head, but Aaron nods and rushes out into the front. He returns in a matter of seconds with a screwdriver, which he forces into the lock. His biceps bulge as he exerts greater pressure, and he grunts with the delicate effort of pushing the pin up without necessarily breaking the latch, or the screwdriver itself — not that Enjolras would care, to be honest. He’s about to take the screwdriver and do the damn job himself when the metal pin peeks out of the latch, and then starts to slowly emerge from the metal bar, bit by bit. Sally’s the one who grabs the pin and lifts it out, discarding it on the ground. Enjolras grasps the handle of the door and heaves it open.

There’s a few of those thick plastic curtains framing the doorway. He pushes them aside, wincing at how cold they feel against his hot skin, and blinks in the dim lighting. He blinks again, and then there’s a pair of cold arms encircling his neck, along with the familiar curly Grantaire texture of Celine’s deep brown hair against his face. Next to him, Sally gasps.

“En-Enjolras?”

He reacts swiftly to the slurred call, sliding one arm around Celine’s waist and pulling her out of the freezer. She comes slowly, her feet tangling together, and her breathing is as sluggish as her words. Her skin is alarmingly frigid.

“Celine. Celine, hey. Hey, listen to me. Come on, we have to get you out of here.”

“Work,” she mumbles. “Tired.”

“Work can wait.”

Sally leads the way as Aaron and Enjolras both bundle Celine towards the back office. As they deposit her gently down in a chair, there’s a hammering at the door of the employee back room, and the first responders start to pour in. 


	3. Blowup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which E and R fight (again) and Combeferre mediates while fighting his own doubts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all dear readers. I apologize for not updating as regularly as I would have liked. The demonic finals are over and now I have a little bit of time for me to write. Sorry this is a little bit dramatic/angsty but at least I wrote, right? I'll try to have more up soon enough. You all are the best -- thank you for your darling comments and kudos. They really do make my day. 
> 
> P.S. Be sure to check out my new favorite people on AO3 -- Ibbyliv, Lady Ragnell, Kingess, KJack 89, defying3reason, and Starberry Cupcake. Their stuff is freaking amazing. I have more favorites, but those are the ones I can name off the top of my head now. 
> 
> P.P.S. Merry Christmas (and Happy Holidays to those who don't celebrate Christmas) ! Have fun eating food and exchanging presents and being with the people you like/love :)

It’s two in the morning when he staggers back to the apartment, bottle in hand. Although he’s close to dead drunk, he’s learned several tips that have kept him out of trouble thus far — keeping his phone and skinny billfold in his combat boots so he wont’ get robbed, drinking just enough that he can walk back alone, because there’s nothing more humiliating than having one of the others come after him and pull him out of a bar, unless things are so bad that he gets _really_ shitfaced, wearing his hardiest clothing so that they can bear up to multiple washings to get the smells and vomit out of them.

Yeah. He’s learned a thing or two. Too bad things blow so hard that his luck is probably going to run out sooner or later.

He lets himself in, glad for the code that he can still punch into the door rather than actual keys he’s going to fumble with and drop onto the ground, potentially risking a fall where he can’t get up since he’s so fucking sloshed. When he bangs the door shut behind him and turns back around, though, he wishes he was still back at the bar.

Enjolras is sitting on the couch, a blanket tucked around him. Even from where he stands, Grantaire can see that the tip of Enjolras’ long nose is still red; his skin tone still slightly pale. Four days later, Enjolras is finally getting over his flu, but he’s got a racking cough that goes straight to his chest, and a lingering malaise which is held back only occasionally by constant rest — something that Enjolras is definitely bad at. He looks up slowly with an expression that makes Grantaire cringe and yet grimace in growing defensiveness.

“Where did you go? You left when the meeting ended and I couldn’t find you.”

“I went out,” Grantaire slurs in reply, pretending to be so drunk he’s misunderstood the question. “What are you doin’ up?”

“Waiting for you,” Enjolras answers. He sounds physically tired, but there’s also an emotional weariness that makes Grantaire’s hackles rise for some reason — mainly because he knows he’s the one contributing to it. “Look, R —”

“Save it, Apollo.” Grantaire makes sure to be as brusque as possible, so that he can cut off this conversation quickly enough. “I’m too drunk to have this conversation right now.”

“That’s because you’ve been _avoiding_ the conversation. Please. Tell me what’s wrong. Let me in, R. I want to help.”

Grantaire snorts, because that’s really naive and he doesn’t know what to do with that answer. “Well, you can’t. All right? Just drop it, Apollo. Please.”

Enjolras’ gaze darkens, but his eyelashes droop, making him look even more woebegone than usual. “Grantaire, we can’t just keep ignoring the elephant in the room.”

Grantaire slams his fist down on the table beside him, because he can’t bear to tiptoe anymore, and he wishes that Enjolras would just drop it, drop this subject, so he doesn’t have to confront it as he knows he should, deep down inside. “Enjolras, what are we ignoring exactly? Spill it, so I can stop being breathless from anticipation.”

“What happened to Azelma and Celine isn’t your fault,” Enjolras says bluntly, although his scowl betrays his growing irritation. “There’s no point in dwelling on —”

Grantaire lurches across the room and glares down at Enjolras, who’s still sitting on the couch. Those dark blue eyes widen, and seemingly against his better judgment, Enjolras shrinks back.

“ _Not_ my fault? I’m supposed to be like a brother to either of them; in fact, I _am_ a brother to one of them. When they were in trouble, Apollo, I wasn’t there. Maybe it was a harmless stalker plaguing Azelma for kicks, but Celine? She could have died, and I didn’t keep my promise to keep her safe, and we still don’t know what happened. The police have no leads. Her coworkers didn’t see anything — neither did you.” The last bit sounds like an accusation, and maybe it is. “Whoever the fuck is out there, Enjolras, we know nothing about them or how many there are or what they intend. This is a danger I can’t fight against, and you can bet it’s going to happen again. I always knew that the good and fun wouldn’t last, and I was right. All the causes we fight for and the service we perform and the good that we do don’t matter. Shit’s happened in your life, and you’re one of the best people I’ve ever known. My sisters are in trouble, and everyone else will soon be in the same boat, and I can’t do anything about it. And you’re telling me I _shouldn’t_ dwell on it?”

“Don’t yell at me.” Enjolras’ voice comes out from between gritted teeth. “Combeferre’s asleep. So is Celine.”

Grantaire snorts in derision. “Whatever you say, Apollo. I’m going to bed. Are you coming?”

Enjolras shakes his head. When he speaks, his voice cracks. “No. I’ll see you in the morning. Hopefully you’ll be yourself.”

Grantaire sneers and takes a last swig from the bottle.

“This is me, Apollo. You better get used to it, if you haven’t already.”

He hurls it in the direction of the kitchen’s trash can, over the buffet, and is rewarded instead by the crash of glass shattering on the wood floor. He throws a sarcastic smirk to Enjolras, who’s flinched at the sound of breaking glass, and then swaggers off to the bedroom. Celine’s in his room and has been for the past few nights since her traumatic experience, but Grantaire knows that she sleeps like the dead, so he doesn’t care about slamming the door shut behind him.

 * * * * * * * * * *

Combeferre’s first awakened by the sound of the front door banging open, so he actually manages to hear every word of the argument between Enjolras and Grantaire. When the tinkling of smashing glass comes to his ears, he bolts upright in his bed, and swings his legs over the side to feel for his slippers. Grantaire slams Enjolras’ bedroom door closed, and that’s the end of it. He ties his robe closed and eases his door open.

Enjolras has switched on the kitchen light, and he’s on his knees, laboriously picking up the bigger pieces of glass and depositing them in the trash can. He’s still got the blanket pulled around his shoulders, a cough wracking his entire frame as he reaches for a big green shard beyond his reach, and Combeferre feels a twinge of pain inside of him at the pathetic sight. Without a word, he gets the broom and dustpan and gently nudges his best friend out of the way, sweeping up the bits and pieces so that Enjolras doesn’t have to.

“He’s drunk,” Enjolras explains unnecessarily. “He didn’t —”

“Those were things he should not have said,” Combeferre states quietly, “but that is between you both. He bottles things up, something he hasn’t done in a while. He’s drinking because he’s stressed, and I fear he’s right, Enjolras, that whatever _is_ out there is still waiting in the dark to spring.”

“But drinking won’t help,” Enjolras argues. “And cynicism won’t help. I just wish… he needs to turn to _us_. And I don’t know how he got so angry.”

“I’m not siding with him, Enjolras,” Combeferre says gently. He finishes sweeping all the glass up and dumps it into the trash can before he finally kneels down to be at eye level with Enjolras. Those beautifully soulful eyes that he knows so well are brimming over the emotions he usually hides from everybody but Combeferre. Recently, he hasn’t had to do the same with Grantaire, and now he’s back to shielding himself against the rest of the world — the way his father has forced him to do for far too many years. “He shouldn’t have gotten angry, yes, but Grantaire’s depression has him clinging to cynicism and shadows because they are all he’s ever known. He’s scared and he’s returned to his vices out of habit. But that was no excuse to shout at you, Enjolras. It’s not your fault. Good communication is always the key, especially in relationships. Even the best relationships have hiccups, Enjolras, and this is one of them. You both will weather the storm.”

He claps Enjolras gently on the shoulder. “You need to sleep, my friend. Even if you can’t be in the same bed with him, you need to be sleeping in one nonetheless.”

“The couch works just fine.” Enjolras just sounds more bewildered and exhausted than angry at this point, so much that Combeferre leans forward to plant a brotherly kiss on his forehead before ushering him over to the couch. He tucks Enjolras in, wrapping the blanket around him, and watches as his best friend falls asleep almost immediately. Then he turns away a little, facing the direction of the bedrooms, and he frowns a little.

He lied to Enjolras, to be fair. Sometimes he’s not sure if Enjolras and Grantaire truly will be a long-term thing, like a Christmas fire that blazes well and burns brightly all year long, or if their relationship will be more like a sparkler — brilliant and fiery but short-lasting. He’s got faith in either of them as his dearly beloved friends, but together they have the potential to either burn out or sputter onward. For their sakes, he’d like to have the faith that their relationship will endure, because they really are good for each other, but they’ve been living through an unholy amount of stress that would either make or break a romance.

He’s seen the look in Grantaire’s eyes, sometimes. The artistic cynic is holding onto a secret that’s as big as a wrecking ball and probably twice as destructive. Meanwhile, Enjolras is treading a path that’s growing more prickly by the day due to Sebastien’s machinations. The others are all on edge with the sudden slew of harassments and troubles that has plagued a few of the Amis recently. No one is in a good, steady place right now, and Combeferre’s worried that recent events will only end up tearing their little close-knit family apart, rather than gluing them all together. 


	4. Shadows in Broad Daylight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see Valjean's POV.

It’s a long, tense fortnight. Enjolras can’t remember the last time he’s felt like he’s been tiptoeing around in a minefield — maybe when he was back under his father’s roof — and it disorients him, because when he was first out of Sebastien’s household, his feelings were safeguarded enough that he was immune to emotional tension and uncertainty. Not anymore. The Amis — especially Grantaire — have brought down his walls, and now his life is laid bare.

He and Grantaire are actively avoiding each other. Grantaire spends most of his time with Celine or Eponine and her brood or in his studio on campus — Enjolras tries not to let it bother him that Combeferre actually sees more of Grantaire than Enjolras himself does — and if he’s not painting, he’s drinking. Even though his alcohol consumption is definitely less than what it used to be — what it could be — Enjolras still feels like it’s his fault Grantaire’s relapsed. He’s analyzed their argument over and over, since it’s what comes naturally to him, and he knows that he’s just as wrong as Grantaire. Dismissing his boyfriend’s concerns is as good as dismissing his feelings, and Enjolras really isn’t helping the situation. Logically, Grantaire shouldn’t have taken out his emotions on Enjolras, either, but it’s one moment in the face of the countless times they have both lost their tempers and shouted at each other, so.

He isn’t going to admit the fact that for that one moment Grantaire shouted at him, Enjolras was as afraid as if he were facing down his father.

For his part, Enjolras mostly gets over his bout of the flu but for the cough, and he throws himself back into his work and activism with as much zeal as he can muster. They have another protest coming up, this one focused on the dorm rights of gay freshmen students, and another rally to increase the minimum wage of student jobs. His teaching workload is as heavy as ever, and with all the overtime he puts in marking papers and preparing lessons, he and R and Combeferre get by.

More or less.

“It’s not fair,” he tells Combeferre while they’re having a quick lunch in his office, trying to be angry but being mostly worried instead. He always feels anxious, now, a lump of it constantly balling almost physically in his chest and sometimes making it hard for him to breathe. “You spend practically every night over at Ep’s. You really shouldn’t be paying any rent on the flat here. Besides, you need to save up for your own future with her.”

Combeferre shakes his head and places half of his sub sandwich on Enjolras’ napkin. “Eat. I’m fine, Enjolras. Really. My parents and grandparents are so happy I’m finally getting married and giving them grandchildren to play with soon enough that they’re fine supporting us, especially with Ep’s siblings still around in the house. Besides, I have my trust fund and future inheritance with my salary. You have _nothing_. I’m happy to help you, Enjolras, even if you have that misplaced sense of guilt that you shouldn’t even think of feeling. I want to do this, Enjolras, and you’re not making me do anything for you.”

Enjolras hangs his head and picks at the crust of the sandwich without saying anything.

“Eat it,” Combeferre says with just the barest hint of steel in his voice. “You think I haven’t noticed that you’ve been trying to go without food?”

“You just guessed it,” Enjolras protests, but he does pick up his half of the sandwich and starts chewing when Combeferre gives him one of his patented _I-love-you-but-I-am-disappointed-in-you_ looks.

“That, and you always look like you’re about to fall over — more than ever before. Also, some of my spies may be keeping an eye on you.”

Enjolras gives him a suspicious look and Combeferre smiles enigmatically. Enjolras briefly entertains the likely notion that Courfeyrac and Dr. Mabeuf probably check up regularly on him at Combeferre’s bequest, but both of them are too sneaky for Enjolras to avoid forever.

As if sensing Enjolras’ discomfort, Combeferre changes the subject with enviable grace, as he’s been known to do. “How’s Maryse?”

Enjolras has finally managed to get a hold of his mother. She’s purchased a prepaid phone with Agathe’s help, and she’s got it hidden in her hospital room where she uses it to communicate with Enjolras when Sebastien isn’t around. The tenuous link to his mother has made Enjolras feel like he’s on a solid piece of ground compared to all other areas of his life.

“She’s fine,” he answers, feeling himself perk up just a little bit. “The chemotherapy makes her tired all the time, but Agathe visits her a lot, and I’ve been able to FaceTime with her a little bit. Agathe told me that my father’s going out of town next week so I might be able to sneak down to see Mother.”

“What about that insane nurse that Sebastien bribes to keep you out?”

“Agathe’s managed to strike up a conversation with her, and found out that she doesn’t work nights. I’ll go over there when classes get out and catch her right before visiting hours are over.”

Even as he talks, though, he feels a heaviness growing on his heart and he wonders, because maybe that nurse — Genevieve or whatever her name is — might have told her fellow nurses about him. But technically she could get into trouble for the bribes. He’s read about that somewhere in his second-course law textbook — one of the classes taught by Dr. Lamarque, and now instructed by himself. He freezes momentarily, and it’s only the warmth of Combeferre’s hand, placed over his, that draws him back to the present.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically.

Combeferre’s surveying him with a patient look that has infinite wisdom and sadness contained within.

“No,” he answers kindly, “you’re not. None of us are.”

 * * * * * * * * * * *

Jean Valjean usually does not believe in lateness. He has a penchant to always be on time. It’s one of the many virtues instilled into him by Dr. Francois Myriel, once his colleague and fellow lawyer turned college professor — ironically, at the same university his daughter and son-in-law and their ragtag band of friends are enrolled in — and still one of his dearest friends.

He draws up his coat collar and hurries down the sidewalk. He doesn’t usually go into town, because the village shops are suitable for his needs, but today he’s having lunch with Dr. Myriel and Dr. Mabeuf at the Hilton. Parking in downtown Manhattan is a nightmare, so he’s deposited the car in a garage a little further away than he would like.

No matter. He’s had days when he’s had to walk miles to get to work. This is nothing.

For a moment he permits thoughts of his deceased wife to move through his head. Fantine remains the only woman to this day whom Valjean has ever loved, and he wishes — an empty thought — that breast cancer never claimed her life. Such wishes are pointless, however, and he instead dwells on the memory of her dark hair, her slender figure, and her patrician features, as well as the scent of her perfume. For Christmas this year, Cosette gave him a bottle of Fantine’s perfume — a hard-to-obtain scent that must have cost more than it was originally worth — and a family painting of the three of them, with the noted addition of Marius to the picture. The illustration is so well done that it looks like an actual photograph to Valjean’s eyes.

“Grantaire painted it,” he remembers Cosette saying with a fond laugh. “I charged him for it and everything, just like a real commission. I wanted you to have an updated family painting.”

Valjean makes a mental note to thank the young artist the next time he runs into Cosette and Marius’ close-knit group of friends. He tucks his hands further into his pockets and ducks his head against the chill.

It’s then that he realizes that there’s someone following him. When he’s at one of the traffic lights, he looks casually at his watch and glances around blithely, seizing the chance to sneak a quick, good glance at his shadow.

It’s a tall, broad-shouldered man all dressed in black with an average-looking face. He’s got muscle, but there’s a scar running down the side of his face — either spelling carelessness on his part, once upon a time, or deliberate mutilation in a vicious environment.

Valjean walks onward with his usual pace, taking mute note of his surroundings as he does. There are passersby all around, because this is New York City, so there’s that added measure of protection, but the fact that he’s being followed bodes ill. Either he’s being targeted as an easy mark for a pickpocket or robbery, or he has been followed _all_ the way from his penthouse apartment — a flat in the same building that Marius and Cosette have their new apartment. The former will not be difficult to thwart; the latter is troubling to Valjean. He’s had a troubled childhood and an expunged juvenile record before he entered the FBI and later got his law career, so he’s got plenty of people around him who would try to do him harm or slander.

 _Including Javert._ But this isn’t the policeman. Valjean suspects it’s someone more nefarious than the doggedly stubborn cop he’s grown up with.

He keeps on going, and when the crowd starts to thicken from the upcoming lunch rush, he whips into a side road and weaves his way through the few people in his way. He takes a left turn into an alleyway and hurries through as silently as he can. When he emerges, he ducks down behind some shrubbery and waits.

Sure enough, the man who’s been tailing him comes running out of the alleyway, looking frantic. He rushes past Valjean’s hiding place and starts scanning the crowd with a frustrated look on his face. He’s so busy looking around that he doesn’t even notice when Valjean stands up and walks back the way he came. His heart is pounding and he checks for the cheerful text that Cosette sent him only half an hour ago, informing him of her day’s schedule, Marius' physical therapy, and how excited she is to see him for dinner tonight.

He’ll be subtle and ask her if she’s noticed anything suspicious recently. This could be a one-time incident, and the last thing he wants to do is to spook her unnecessarily if he’s just being overly paranoid. 

Which, you know, does happen. Once in a while. 

Most of the time, however, he's usually right. And his gut is telling him that he’s right in this instance to be suspicious. 


	5. Marital Issues and Communication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see that marriage ain't all giggles. At least, not until you resolve problems by communicating.

When Cosette’s phone pings, signaling the receipt of a text message, she grabs for it and sighs in relief. “Papa’s back home,” she says brightly. The entire five minutes she’s been waiting, she and Marius have been scrubbing away at dishes, and her voice breaks the silence that’s formed between them.

Marius sighs. He’s never been as eloquent as Enjolras — or, more bluntly put, as acidic, but he’s so nice that Cosette knows he would never think anything like that — but recently he’s gotten far too reticent for Cosette’s liking.

“What’s up, sweetheart?” she asks quietly. “You’re shutting me out. Please don’t do that.”

Marius looks away. He’s thrumming his fingers angrily against one of the massive wheels of the electric wheelchair that Valjean’s purchased for him. As soon as he realizes Cosette has noticed, he snatches his fingers off and wheels away into the dining room.

“Marius —”

“Just leave it alone, Cosette,” Marius answers distantly.

“No, we can’t.” Cosette does her best to keep her voice level. Les Amis have identified Marius as the gentle soul in the group, and Cosette agrees, because she certainly isn’t the biggest innocent around here. Her adorable, fumbling, awkward husband is. Right now, though, his innocence and naivete have been shaken up by the frightening uncertainty of what’s happening to him and their band of friends. “You can’t bottle things up, Marius. It’s not healthy, and we all want to help. What’s bothering you?”

“What do you think?”

“You heard what Doctor Allen said at the start of therapy. This could be permanent, yes, but it could also be temporary. The jury still is out on that verdict. Nothing is certain.”

“Some things are certain!”

“I still love you,” Cosette shoots back steadily. “The others still love you. We’ll get through this, just like everything else. _Those_ things are certain, Marius. I didn’t love you for your legs or your ability to walk. I love you for who _you_ are — that sweet, blushing, kind soul who you _still_ are. Please don’t shut me out. Please don’t give up who you are. This doesn’t define you.”

“I’m your husband,” Marius snaps. “Not your lapdog. I’m supposed to _provide_ for you, not be completely dependent on you.” He gestures down at the wheelchair. “When I married you, I didn’t think I was going to turn out to be a weakling that you would have to care for all the days of _your_ life.”

Cosette bites her lip to keep from saying the wrong thing. She’s the impetuous one in the relationship, not Marius. Although Courfeyrac describes her glowingly as an angel of goodness, she’s got many traits that would not classify her among the very angelic, and one of them can be her temper. Before she can snap out angry words of her own, however, she reins in the desire as hard and quickly as she can and goes over to her husband.

Considering that Marius is usually the more tactful of the two, the fact that he’s finally showing her his nonexistent temper means that he’s stewed on this issue for a long time and it’s simmering within. If they don’t nip his problems in the bud, they’ll fester and rot the sweet, gentle soul that Cosette fell in love with.

“In sickness _and_ health, Marius. It’s not a bother, trust me. We’re not pregnant, so we don’t have baby expenses. Papa and I have more than enough money right now, whether it’s in liquid sources or tied up in investments. We’re okay, I promise. And it doesn’t matter to me whether or not you can walk, sweetheart. I swear to you, if it ever becomes a bother to me, I will tell you. But that day will never come because I love _you_ for _you_. I know that might not count for much, and you may or may not ever walk again, but I want you to know that this doesn’t change things. You’re no less of a man than if you could walk — in fact, if you can continue to maneuver your way around in a wheelchair and do everything cheerfully like you have been since the accident, then you’re more than the man I married, because this isn’t easy, and a real man would be doing his best to adapt and be cheerful about it like you have been. Only the best man I know could have dived in front of his friend to save him, and only the best man I _love_ could have been so patient and good with this unfair curveball that life has thrown at him.”

A tear slips out of the corner of Marius’ eye, and he rubs it away. When another follows, Cosette is the one to kiss it away. She follows it up with another kiss to Marius’ lips, pressing her mouth gently to his, sharing a kiss that’s more tender and reassuring than any she’s ever given him, hoping she can impart the depth of the love that she feels for her husband.

“Besides,” she adds, making her tone light and teasing as she tilts his chin to get him to look at her, “from what I’ve studied, paralysis of _any_ kind means we still can have sex. Really. Great. Sex.”

Marius blushes tomato red, but when he starts smiling, Cosette knows she’s won. She leans in and they both kiss eagerly, Cosette starting to nip her way down his neck. She determinedly pushes away her own worried thoughts about Marius, her father, and the Amis — and about the deluge of troubles that everyone suddenly seems to all be experiencing at the same time — in favor of the Really Great Sex she’s about to have with her husband.

The dishes and the others' problems are going to have to wait. 


	6. Mother and Adopted Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Maryse and Montparnasse have another of their visits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a little bit about accounting and business and stuff but I'm probably wrong about the ins and outs of stocks so don't get mad at me for taking a bit of artistic license :) 
> 
> Hope you all had a good holiday season! Happy New Year!

“Is the chemotherapy even working?”

Maryse nudges forward a pawn and watches as Montparnasse takes it with his bishop.

“I don’t think so,” she answers with the kind of frankness that Montparnasse has learned to accept from her, and of which he finds refreshing. So much pussyfooting happens in the world today that Montparnasse is long sick of it. “I overhear the doctors when they think I’m not listening, and it seems that the treatments are not working.”

Montparnasse moves a pawn of his own. “You seem rather accepting of that. Anyone else would be tearing their hair out by the roots.”

Maryse twitches a smile. Even though she’s in the middle of her treatments, she still hasn’t lost that beautifully luxurious blond hair that she’s well known for, or that regal grace Montparnasse certainly respects her for.

“I suppose that at the end you start learning about what battles you can fight and what you can’t. A good general knows what strategy to take and when it’s time to surrender.”

“Surrendering is never a good idea,” Montparnasse objects. He moves his rook and winces when it gets captured by Maryse’s knight.

Maryse raises an eyebrow and says calmly, “Courage is what it takes to stand up and speak; courage is also what it takes to sit down and listen.”

“Winston Churchill,” Montparnasse counters without missing a beat. “That’s not the point.”

“It takes courage to fight, yes,” Maryse explains, “but it takes just as much courage, if not more, to face the consequences of a lost battle.” As if to punctuate her point, she uses her bishop to take Montparnasse’s, and then watches as it in turn gets swallowed up by his queen.

Montparnasse sits back and opens his mouth to argue, then shuts it himself. She’s got a point, and as much as he would like to overturn it, there’s undeniable truth to her words. He doesn’t have to like them, but they’re there regardless. And he really can’t get torn up over the inevitable death of his hated rival’s parent and a client’s wife, anyway. He’s the head of Patron-Minette, not some six-year-old kid scared of the dark and only able to stomach sissy sentimentalities.

“Well, have you got your affairs in order, then?” he asks abruptly. “Leaving anything to your precious son?”

Maryse laughs lightly, like he hasn’t just insulted her child. Montparnasse can’t get over how she’s always so unruffled no matter what he throws at her. “I’m trying, but I doubt it. I’ve run out of time to get those shares.”

“What shares? Check.”

Maryse moves her king safely out of the way. “Sebastien blackmailed me into giving up my father’s company, something that my father made me promise not to ever do, but I had no choice. It’s brought profitability and respectability to Sebastien's own firm, and I’ve been trying to buy it back. I don’t have time or energy to go running around to people for their shares though. Or the means, I’ll admit.”

“What people?”

Maryse nods at the opposite wall, and when Montparnasse turns around, he only spots a family portrait and Grantaire’s painting, both framed on the walls. The sight of the latter always sends a thread of ice through his chest, but he ignores it.

“I don’t see anything but two pictures.”

Maryse smiles. “The documents are behind the family portrait.”

Montparnasse stands up and removes the portrait from the wall. It’s a lovely glossy photograph taken and printed professionally, and features the four members of the Enjolras family. He turns the frame over and removes the wood backing of the photograph to find a manila envelope. Distractedly, he moves his queen three squares and then pushes the flap open.

“How many more shares do you need?”

“It’s not a matter of how many, actually. I’ve talked to the people on one of the lists — yes, that one — and I only need all ten of them to sell me their shares for me to get the majority of 51% or more. I want to see the look on Sebastien’s face when he finds I’ve outwitted him and handed some control back to Adrien. When I’m gone, it’ll be all he has against the juggernaut that is Sebastien and his empire. More than that, I want to regain the glory of my father’s legacy and re-honor the promise I made to him. That’s a pipe dream at this point, though. I’m not going anywhere.”

“What made you break your promise?” Montparnasse inquires. His mind isn’t completely in the conversation, however. He’s too busy going over the documents. Apart from the list of names and contact information, he’s got company and industry information about Digne Enterprises, including the bit about stocks that Maryse mentioned. He scans the list again, his mind racing at a hundred miles a minute. All these people live in the states of New York, Rhode Island, or New Jersey — close enough in proximity, and none of them are asking all that much to sell their stocks.

“He hurt Adrien,” Maryse replies. “Checkmate.”

Montparnasse lifts his head from the pages and scowls in mock annoyance at her. Before she required chemotherapy, and after her hospitalization, he’s visited Maryse several times to chat or for a spot of tea or a game of chess. Amusingly enough, they’ve been racing neck to neck in their regular chess tournaments — if he loses one game, he’ll win the next, and so on. These games keep him on his intellectual toes, and he admits only to himself that he looks forward to seeing Maryse each time he comes.

“Next time I’ll beat you,” he promises.

“Next time I’m going to break this win-lose-win trend we’ve set and win twice in a row,” Maryse retaliates with a grin. “I’m probably going to take a nap now. Thank you so much for coming, Edouard.”

Montparnasse lifts her hand to his lips before he moves around the bed. When he hangs the photograph back onto the wall, he turns around to find that she’s already asleep, chest moving up and down gently in her sleep. For a while he watches her, thinking of their interactions, of his own mother; thinking of Adrien and Sebastien Enjolras, and of Grantaire and Eponine, despite himself.

Sliding the documents back into the envelope and tucking it beneath his jacket, he exits the room and makes for the elevator at a brisk pace. 


	7. Your List of Allies Grows Thin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Combeferre realizes what happened at the police station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear wonderful readers, 
> 
> Thank you for putting up with the delay in updates. I've had a million personal and family issues, along with another writing project for an actual class (taught by Brandon Sanderson, if you know who that is.) 
> 
> I promise you that I'm not going to give up on this fic until it's done (and there's no chance of me losing my obsession with Les Mis, so yeah). 
> 
> Thank you for reading and kudos-ing and commenting so faithfully. Comments are my favorite, and the latest ones I've received have stirred me into a restless writing mood. 
> 
> More chapters will be upcoming. I'll try to write what I can, but rest assured that they will come, and I will finish this, never fear! 
> 
> DFTBA!
> 
> P.S. Yes, the title is an LOTR reference :)

“Luc, will you check in on Rooms 277 to 280?”

Combeferre nods and takes the clipboard that Dr. Randy Foster thrusts at him. Things have been hectic around the Intensive Care unit that he’s on loan from the trauma unit — there are several victims from a huge shooting, an armed robbery, and a big apartment fire, with multiple DOAs — and it’s giving him the chance to take on more responsibilities and get more medical training and knowledge. He appreciates the invaluable experiences he’s getting, even if it makes his head and heart hurt unbearably at moments.

He starts working his way downward from Room 280. There’s a girl who was raped by her boyfriend; an older woman who’s suffered through a heart attack. A little boy who was scalded by a pot of boiling water when he tipped it over; an old man who’s been hit by a car. A pair of teenagers in a car accident of their own. Thankfully, all of them are slated to live, even if they have a long, hard recovery ahead of them. Combeferre makes small talk with the assorted family members who are in vigil as they watch over their loved ones, if only to see how they are holding up.

He checks the clipboard and the charts at the feet of the last two beds. One of them is a burly black man who’s asleep, but hooked up to more machinery than Combeferre would like seeing. According to his chart, though, he’s in reasonably good condition for having been shot in the stomach.

The other man is unconscious, but his sharply angular face is familiar almost to Combeferre despite the oxygen mask that obscures his features and the tube up his nose. Like his companion, he’s been shot in the stomach, and additionally, the left arm and side. The prospects for him aren’t as good; he’s got some internal bleeding and he’s been unconscious for over two weeks.

Combeferre checks the medical chart. Like the man’s face, his name seems to be just as familiar — Jeff Miller.

_Jeff Miller. He’s the detective who’s interacted with Courf and Jehan._

Ice starts coalescing in the pit of his stomach.

“Hello, Doctor.”

A young woman in her thirties steps out of the bathroom. She’s got sad brown eyes and wavy brown hair framing a pretty heart-shaped face. There’s a wedding ring on her finger, and Combeferre feels his stomach flip even as he gives her an apologetic shrug.

“I’m not actually the doctor,” he says. “I’m just an intern. How are you holding up, Mrs. Miller?”

The woman’s lip trembles, but she offers him a stoic nod. “I could be better.”

“I actually met Detective Miller a little under a month ago during an attempted homicide of a few friends of mine,” Combeferre admits. “He strikes me as a good man. I wasn’t aware that he’d been injured.”

“It was at the station,” the young wife explains with a haunted look in her soulful eyes. “He and Officer Trevino are the only ones who survived the shooting there — six other officers were killed instantly or dead on arrival. He could still die.”

Combeferre pauses hesitantly. Words are cheap; they can’t do anything to help this young woman or her situation. Yet he feels compelled to offer them regardless, because he has nothing else he can give. The shock of seeing this good man unconscious and critically injured has withered his tongue into disuse.

“I’m sorry,” he says simply. “Do you want to talk about it? Or do you need anything at all?”

The young woman shakes her head and summons a brave smile. “Our kids are with my sister, and my mother comes to check up on me every day. But thank you very much.”

“Please let me or any of the other medical staff know if we can do anything at all for you and your husband.”

Mrs. Miller nods and sits back down on the chair beside Detective Miller’s bed, already vanishing into her own thoughts.

Combeferre takes her cue and leaves the room, and for the rest of the day, his mind keeps being diverted back to Room 277 and the occupants within. 


	8. The World Is Big But Little People Turn It Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Claquesous runs into Gavroche. Sort of.

Gavroche Thenardier is his target today, and Claquesous can’t help but feel a little bit apprehensive.

He’s not scared of a _kid_. Seriously, the towheaded youngster is _maybe_ half his size, if that. The problem lies in the fact that Gavroche knows Montparnasse well, since he’s Eponine’s younger brother. Patron-Minette’s done a fantastic job in staying undetected and unknown to the police, and Claquesous would like it to remain that way. He also knows that Montparnasse is fond of the street-smart urchin and assigned Claqouesous to do… _something_ because Brujon or Babet or Gueulemer wouldn’t understand.

It’s more likely to Claquesous that they just wouldn’t care — the more brutal crimes of Patron-Minette have occurred because the other three had their cravings and Claquesous or Montparnasse wasn’t around to keep them in line. The murders have brought them infamy and built their reputation, if nothing else, but Claquesous still winces thinking about it.

So far Babet, Brujon, and Gueulemer have all done their part with the Grantaire girl, Azelma Thenardier, and Jean Valjean. Well, not quite — the older man gave Brujon the slip, what a stupid ass — and now it’s Claquesous’ turn. Then Montparnasse. If the don’t do something soon, Brujon and Gueulemer will probably get too impatient and take matters into their own hands.

Annoyed, he taps his foot and stares across the street at the elementary school. He has five minutes to decide before the school bell rings and the Thenardier kid takes off. He lives too close to school to take one of those big yellow buses — he just walks instead, which would give Claquesous plenty of time to do… something. Anything.

Threatening him won’t work. The little boy has nerves of steel and possibly bigger balls than the older Amis, which would make Claquesous laugh to think about if he weren’t in this situation right about now. Montparnasse has mentioned on several occasions that Gavroche would jeer in the face of the abuse doled out to him and his sisters by their parents.

Three minutes. Two. One.

The shrilling of the bell announces the end of the school day, seconds before kids literally burst from the double doors like the building is on fire. Claquesous’ eyes skim over all hair colors that don’t adhere to the bright blond color he’s on the lookout for, and a denim jacket with tricolored cockade — apparently Gavroche likes emulating Sebastien Enjolras’ spawn — and he sees his target. Gavroche is sidling around a heavyset bully who’s shaking down a scrawny bespectacled boy. Right as he passes the bully and his target, Gavroche slips his hand into the bully’s pocket and grabs a fat brown wallet. The precocious kid is so light-fingered that Claquesous can only smirk and shake his head — he hasn’t seen anyone with hands that steady or quick since Montparnasse.

He waits until Gavroche has peeled away from the crowd of kids, headed towards the Thenardier apartment, and crosses the street to catch up with the boy.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve stealing like that,” he comments.

Gavroche looks up at Claquesous with a mischievous grin. He’s emptying the wallet, counting the bills inside, and folding half of them up to tuck in a compartment of the wallet, while the others he slips into his own pockets.

“Nobody likes Burgon,” the kid answers flippantly. “That’s the money he took from Gervais that I’ll return tomorrow. The rest is mine. It’s about time he got what was coming to him.”

“And it took you all this time to give him his comeuppance?”

Gavroche smirks his little bucktoothed smile. “This is the fifth time Burgon’s ‘lost’ his wallet, Monsieur. It’s not my fault he’s so careless.”

Claquesous shakes his head and sighs. He walks on beside Gavroche for a few minutes longer before he says to the boy, “Are you on your way home, then?”

Gavroche looks steadily up at him. “I was, but now I’m not, because I don’t know if you happen to be a bad guy, so I’m doing a heat run so that you don’t know where my real house is.”

Claquesous chuckles dryly as he makes up his mind. Montparnasse won’t mind, but the others will just have to deal with his decision. “Don’t worry, little man. You’re not the one my friends and I have a problem with.”

“Who _do_ you have a problem with?” Gavroche asks swiftly.

Claquesous doesn’t have it in him to do anything bad to this kid, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still leave a message. And the best part is that his features are so generic that the kid won’t be able to tell anyone about him.

“Your friends. Your _sister’s_ friends. They had better watch their backs.”

Before the child can react, Claquesous melts into an alleyway and vanishes into the shadows, using them to hide his retreat. It’s only when he’s three blocks away that he realizes Gavroche has picked him clean of the Benjamin Franklin that was crumpled in one pocket.

Light-fingered, indeed. He permits himself another wry chuckle before he heads back in the direction of Montparnasse’s apartment. 


	9. Challenge Issued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gavroche tells the Amis what he knows.

Combeferre swings by the Thenardier apartment to pick Eponine up for their ABC meeting that evening. He usually pops a dish into the oven or the crockpot before he leaves for school and his shift at the hospital, just so Azelma and Gavroche can eat before they get too hungry. He and Eponine often share dinner after their meetings so they can spend as much time together as possible.

Tonight, however, Gavroche is sitting at the kitchen table with no plate or cutlery in front of him. Azelma’s has a platter of pot roast and mashed potatoes on her outstretched legs as she watches _Gossip Girl_ reruns in the living room; she waves at Combeferre when he sets his bag by the door, and he waves back.

“Hey, Gav. Not hungry tonight?”

“I already ate. I ate quick because I want to go with you guys to the meeting tonight. I’ve got somethin’ important to tell you all.”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“Don’t bother,” Eponine calls out from the bedroom, where it sounds like she’s getting dressed, her voice muffled. “He refused to tell me.”

“I already did my homework,” Gavroche adds smugly, anticipating Combeferre’s next question. “I _told_ you, it’s important.”

Combeferre resists the urge to ruffle Gavroche’s hair. He and the other Amis feel so much affection for this little independent urchin that sometimes it’s difficult to find ways to express their sentiments where Gavroche doesn’t feel like a kid. He looks up so much to them all, and Combeferre knows that Gavroche enjoys the way the Amis treat him like an equal — a very small equal. Instead, he fistbumps Gavroche, and smiles down at the boy. “All right, then.”

Eponine hops out of the bedroom with one boot on as she tugs the other over her foot. As Combeferre passes her, they exchange a quick kiss.

“Be right out,” Combeferre says, right as she states, “We have two minutes.”

“You two are disgusting,” Gavroche comments.

Closing the door behind him, Combeferre shimmies out of his scrubs and into a pair of jeans and a charcoal gray sweater that Eponine’s picked out for him. He wonders why Gavroche is so firm on coming to the ABC meeting tonight. Normally, the kid loves tagging along after the Amis, and that’s nothing unusual, but this time he’s almost insistent about it. Considering how grim everything’s suddenly gotten with Cosette’s father and Marius’ paralysis and Enjolras’ and Grantaire’s fight — not to mention Celine’s and Azelma’s individual scares, and how Jehan is still skittish — it’ll be nice to have Gavroche lighten up the heavy mood that’s recently settled over the meetings.

That couldn’t be further from the truth.

When they get to the Musain, Enjolras is — as always — the first one there, sitting in the corner with textbooks and papers stacked around him. He’s cobbling the agenda together, most likely looking over it for the fifth or sixth time, and he doesn’t look up even when Combeferre stops beside his table.

“Ferre.”

“Hello, Enjolras. Gavroche is here tonight — he says he has something important to tell us all. What are you doing?”

Enjolras nods towards a stack of flyers. “Preparing the last round of pamphlets for our protest next month.”

Combeferre sits down next to his best friend and casts a scrutinizing eye over him. Enjolras appears tired — nothing new — but his eyes are clearly red-rimmed, and he’s rubbing his right temple as if nursing a headache.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Enjolras drops his pencil on the table with more force than the action warrants, and he leans back in his chair, scrubbing his face with his hands. “Grantaire stopped by to get some of his stuff.”

Ah. Combeferre winces. “Did you both argue?”

“He didn’t want to talk.” Enjolras’ voice is flat. “I guess it’s obvious who wants the relationship and who doesn’t.”

“Give him time, Enjolras. He’s worried about everything that’s happening, and he’s feeling ashamed of your fight. You’ll both make it up, sooner or later.”

Enjolras looks back down at his paper and doesn’t respond, effectively ending the conversation. Combeferre simply squeezes him on the shoulder before moving back to where Eponine is sitting at the bar and chatting with Musichetta. Both girls look up as Combeferre approaches.

“Is Enjolras okay?” Musichetta asks bluntly.

Combeferre shrugs. “R stopped by to get some things. I think Enjolras is assuming their relationship is over.”

Eponine rolls her eyes. “I really want to smack those two sometimes for being such idiots. I’ll try talking to R after the meeting tonight.”

“I appreciate it.” Combeferre leans over and kisses the top of his fiancee’s head. “Thank you.”

The others start trickling in. Joly and Bossuet are both wrapped in huge coats and scarves, and they trail to the bar to each give Musichetta a kiss on either cheek. Celine, Bahorel, and Grantaire come in and take a seat at the table closest to the door — and the farthest away from Enjolras — and Combeferre can tell that Enjolras is trying not to take it personally. Feuilly and Victoire enter the Musain hand in hand, with Courfeyrac and Jehan on their heels. Cosette and Marius are absent — Marius is still getting used to his electric wheelchair, and Cosette is doting on him more than ever.

Gavroche is bouncing on his chair by the time everyone seats themselves, and Combeferre attempts to catch Enjolras’ eye to point out that Gavroche is probably too excited to sit still in silence for another second. Combeferre needn’t have worried, though — Enjolras usually isn’t very competent at reading social cues, but he’s always had a soft spot for Gavroche. After reminding everyone about the upcoming protest and to take and distribute the pamphlets he’s got around town, he passes the time over to Gavroche.

Self-importantly, the little boy stands up on his chair so that he can be seen and heard by the others around him. Combeferre hides his smile as he attempts to look serious for Gavroche’s sake. The others are all smiling with varying degrees of amusement, admiration, and mingled respect.

“I was walking home from school today,” Gavroche says cheerily, “when a guy started talking to me.”

Eponine straightens instinctively in her chair, ready to start firing questions, when Combeferre touches her arm gently. _Wait for him to finish._

“He seemed nice. He didn’t really do anything except ask me about picking the school bully’s pocket. Then I asked him if he had a problem with me, and he doesn’t. But he said he does with you all.”

Enjolras drops the sheaf of papers he’s holding, and Grantaire sets his glass down onto the tabletop with eerie precision. Bahorel stops flirting with Celine, and his eyebrows settle into a huge frown. For her part, Celine takes a deep breath, as if trying to center herself, and leans her shoulder against Bahorel’s for support. Jehan and Courfeyrac are holding hands tightly on top of the table, and Combeferre feels Eponine groping for his own. He entwines his fingers with hers. Feuilly has his arm around Victoire, while Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are huddled together, staring wide-eyed at Gavroche’s pronouncement.

“What do you mean, Gav?” Eponine asks, obviously trying to keep her voice steady.

“Gavroche shrugs. “I said, ‘Who do you have a problem with?’ and he said, ‘Your friends — your sister’s friends. They had better watch their backs.’ ”

“What does he look like?” Grantaire questions impatiently. Combeferre knows what he’s thinking. If they can get a police sketch artist in, somehow —

Gavroche wrinkles his nose. “I don’t remember. He had brown eyes and brown hair and that was it. No distinguishing features.”

“Great,” Grantaire mumbles. “If _you_ can’t tell what he looks like, Gav, then he’s some sort of chameleon. I know I’ve taught you better than that.”

Gavroche shrugs his skinny shoulders. “Sorry. I just thought you all needed to know. Since, you know, we’re all bros.”

The meeting doesn’t really have any sort of structure after that. Conspiracy theories and quietly whispered concerns replace any semblance of order, and even Enjolras gives up trying to get the meeting back to where he wants it to be; he keeps watching Grantaire, without saying a word. Bahorel and Feuilly and Grantaire are sorting out some sort of a buddy system while the girls, Joly, and Bossuet help Musichetta clean up. Jehan and Courfeyrac are talking quietly in the corner, and Combeferre doesn’t want to disturb them.

“Ferre? Did I mess up Enjolras’ meeting?”

Combeferre looks down at Gavroche, who’s stuffing a curly fry into his mouth. Even though the kid’s already had dinner, he’s begged for the snack soon after dropping his little bombshell, and Combeferre has filched a fry or two of his own from the platter. Now he takes another fry and chews it as he shakes his head in response to Gavroche’s question.

“You didn’t mean to, and Enjolras isn’t angry. Don’t worry. I think what you had to tell us was more important right now.”

Gavroche dips his curly fry into a pool of ketchup. “Thanks for listening to me.”

Combeferre gives in to temptation, and affectionately ruffles the boy’s blond curls. He grins when Gavroche wrinkles his nose in his direction.

“You’re one of the Amis, Gavroche. Of course we’ll listen to you. You’re smart, you’re brave, and you brought us important news. Don’t ever think otherwise, okay?”

Gavroche grins and salutes Combeferre with a curly fry. “Deal.”


	10. Sibling Debrief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which R is trying to be a big brother, but Celine is the one who sisters him into common sense, instead.

Grantaire barely manages to stay awake while waiting for Celine to get out of her class. Ever since The Incident, he’s tried to spend a lot more time with her — something made possible by the fact that Enjolras isn’t occupying his time as much as he used to. His boyfriend still has a prime location set up in his head, but that can’t be helped.

As he waits, he puzzles over what Gavroche told him and the others last night. Gavroche hasn’t been able to give them a better description of the man, which is alarming in itself. The kid _knows_ how to provide an apt description of any individual, and he’s immensely loyal to the Amis, like a dog who looks after its humans because it thinks they can’t take care of themselves. And what is this man even planning to do? _Kill_ them? His heart stutters over the thought of seeing Eponine, or Courfeyrac, or Bahorel, or any of the others, cold and lifeless. Then he thinks immediately of Enjolras lying dead, and his breath seizes in his lungs. The sensation of not being able to get enough air lingers even after he inhales and exhales deeply for at least two minutes.

Forcing the morbid thoughts away, he straightens up from where he’s slouching against the doorframe and watches as Celine makes her way out. She’s surrounded by a small cluster of freshman boys and girls. With her dark curls puffed up beneath a blue knit hat and her matching pea coat, she looks fresh and happy and preppy. His heart aches in his chest at the sight of her, living the university dream and fulfilling every role that he’s ever wanted for her. Throughout his own bouts of alcoholism and depression, his sister and the rest of his family have always been there for him, and he’s not resentful of the fact that she’s having a better life than he is. She deserves it. He doesn’t.

 _Bullshit,_ he can hear Eponine telling him, a scowl fixed on her dark plum lips.

 _You’re wrong,_ Enjolras adds, as if there’s suddenly a conversation happening in Grantaire’s head. It’s not really them, obviously, but Grantaire knows that their talk of self-worth and everything is starting to rub off on him.

Grantaire ignores them — or rather, his own head, _that’s_ not messed up at all — and walks forward, starting to come into her line of sight, when out of nowhere he collides straight into a wall of solid muscle. He barely manages to keep himself on his feet, but it feels like he’s hit Mount Everest himself, and the familiar smell of gym mats and locker rooms, tempered by deodorant and soap and whiskey, comes to his nose.

“Bahorel? What the fuck?”

Bahorel’s booming laugh sounds in Grantaire’s ear as a pair of hands which Grantaire swears is bigger than his face comes out of nowhere and latches onto his shoulders, holding him upright.

“Sorry, R. I was passing through the writing building. It’s a good shortcut to the gym. Fancy running into you.”

“And you.” Grantaire says. He swats at Bahorel’s chest — naturally, it does _nothing_ — and halfheartedly returns the bear hug Bahorel bestows on him. “Where are you headed? Do you have class right now?”

“I actually have a bit of a break. I was going to the gym to box a little.”

“R! Bahorel!”

Celine’s finally managed to extricate herself from her gaggle of friends. Her face lights up when she runs over, and Grantaire gives her a fond hug before he ruffles her hair, out of habit. Sticking her tongue out at him, Celine gives Bahorel a hug that lingers a little bit longer than what she gives the other male Amis — and Bahorel, similarly, does not release her until she pulls away from him, causing Grantaire’s eyebrows to shoot up into his bird’s nest of hair.

He might just be paranoid, especially after Celine’s close shave with the Jamba Juice freezer, but he makes a mental note to pull either of them aside — or both of them — and ask what the _hell_ that was.

“Joining us, Bahorel?”

Bahorel actually hesitates as he smiles in Celine’s direction, as if silently thanking her for and considering her invitation, and this time Grantaire’s eyebrows remain high up on his forehead until they both seem to remember he’s present. At his questioning look, Celine smirks, and Bahorel _blushes_.

It’s surely the end of the world as Grantaire knows it.

“No, he’s got to go to the gym,” he says loudly, taking Celine’s elbow in his grasp. “See ya later, Bahorel!”

“Hey!” Celine protests as he steers her away.

Bahorel’s laugh echoes out from behind them as Grantaire waves goodbye and nudges Celine in the direction of the school cafeteria. Eating lunch together has become a norm for them, and it’s only after they’ve ordered their food and sat down that Celine goes right to the heart of the matter.

“Okay, so what’s going on with you and your Lover Boy?”

“We’re here to eat, not talk,” Grantaire says primly, and Celine looks like she’s resisting the urge to kick him for a second before she ends up giving in. Ducking her head low enough to see, she gives his shin a sharp prod with the toe of her shoe.

“Ow, you. Stop that.”

“I’ll stop when you’re done being stupid. You guys are fighting, aren’t you? I was too preoccupied to see it, but I am seeing clearly now. What happened?”

Grantaire huffs and rolls his eyes. “It’s none of your business.”

“You made it my business because of how dunderheaded you are. Okay, so, what happened?”

Grantaire sits, sulking into his cassoulet, hoping she’ll take the hint and stop asking. He doesn’t want to untangle the mess that is his and Enjolras’ love life, especially when he feels regret at his anger towards his boyfriend but no remorse at his own guilt over Celine and Azelma. He knows he’s right, in some ways, but wrong in others, and he doesn’t know how to fix yet another fight with Enjolras. They argue so much that he’s terrified one day Enjolras won’t be able to take it any longer. And, of course, he handles his fear with the worst coping mechanisms possible — not talking about it to anyone, drinking, hiding away from everybody — because he has no desire to change himself when Enjolras is only going to leave him one day. At the same time,  it feels so wrong to focus on his love life — with their unknown enemy out to get them, surely he should worry about more important things — but he can’t lie to himself and say that Enjolras isn’t his life, his passion, and his muse, and that fighting with him feels like Grantaire is stabbing himself in the gut. 

Celine is obstinate, though, and she doesn’t take the hint. Instead, she says, “You’re avoiding him,” like she’s psychic, and Grantaire scowls at her. She continues, unhindered. “Seeing as how the tension between the two of you really started after the Freezer Incident, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that’s what you both are fighting about. And because the Freezer Incident involves _me_ , and I’m _fine_ , I demand that you tell me what the hell is going on between you two. Right. Now.”

“It’s a long story,” Grantaire says stiffly, because he really can’t argue against that logic.

“And we’ve got time,” Celine answers sweetly. Her tone turns to steel. “Talk. _Now.”_


	11. Barfight (Kind Of)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Musichetta gets her turn, and Bahorel's turning out to be quite the protector.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you got the Dark Knight reference, good on ya. And if you went past THAT reference and figured out who this member of Patron-Minette is, then even gooder on ya.

Musichetta enjoys working at the Musain. She gets free food and drinks served there — her friends get 50 percent off — and now that she’s the manager of the place, the owner has seen fit to let her run the place the way she wants. The people she’s hired — bartender and bouncer, basically — are good at their jobs, and are usually reliable to a fault.

Except tonight. Theodule has gone home sick from a bit of a stomach bug, and Ursula has a family emergency to tend to, both circumstances of which are not their faults. Bahorel’s on his way — Theodule was hired by his recommendation, and Bahorel moonlights when his friend can’t make it — but it’ll take him a half an hour to get here. Joly’s on his shift at the hospital, and Bossuet’s catching up on some homework with one of his professors during their office hours. Musichetta has the place to herself, and while she enjoys company and bustle, she appreciates the quiet. There are one or two individuals nursing drinks this late in the afternoon, long after the lunch rush, but otherwise the music in the background is the only audible sound.

If her mind keeps going back to Gavroche’s proclamation and the strange — but no less dangerous — events that have been happening, well, that’s no one’s business but her own.

Musichetta looks up as the tiny bell over the door chimes an arrival, and her eyebrows lift at the sight of the man stalking through the door. He’s unshaven, and his clothes are disheveled, though they fit him pretty well. He looks like a rough character, and Musichetta’s gaze is drawn to his eyes, which Joly would appropriately describe as ‘cray cray’.

This looks like a man who’s more than slightly unhinged.

Musichetta takes a deep breath and reaches as subtly as she can under the counter, touching the stock of the Mossberg 500 shotgun that Bahorel put there for her. She knows how to handle a gun — they all do, even Enjolras, who protested the entire afternoon that Bahorel pulled them all out to the target range for shooting lessons — but she’s never actually threatened anyone with it. She and Eponine have taken martial arts classes together; she knows how to disable someone up close and personal, but this man is starting to make her extremely nervous. She can’t help but think of Azelma and Celine, and somehow, it strikes her that Theodule’s absence, while not his fault, is not a coincidence that this guy is here.

True to form, he sits down in front of her and orders a gin and tonic with a glare as heated as if Musichetta’s called him a bad word.

Masking her nervousness as best as she can, Musichetta smiles carefully at him and starts to make his drink. Her skin keeps crawling, and there’s a thought that flashes through her mind, bright as a neon sign: _do not turn your back to him._

When she places his drink down in front of him, his hand snakes out, more quickly than she expects, and grabs her by the wrist, pinning her arm to the bartop like a band of steel.

“There’s your drink,” she says calmly. “Let go of my arm, please.”

“You keep staring at me,” the man says softly, malice coating his every word. It’s quiet, and the other patrons don’t hear it, but to Musichetta’s ears his voice is the rattle of a viper ready to strike. “Is there something wrong with me, girl?”

“I’m keeping my eye on you because you seem unsettled,” Musichetta returns, her heart banging against her ribs. “You’re scaring me. Let go, please.”

The man twists her arm, turning her palm over as he does. He flicks his fingernail against the diamond ring on her finger and smirks. “You got a fiance who protects that sass mouth of yours, bitch?”

“Two, actually,” Musichetta says icily. “And when they get here, they’ll kick your arse. This is your last warning. Let go of my hand.” Of course, Joly and Bossuet aren’t the ones who will be doing any ass-kicking — it’s more likely that Bahorel and Grantaire would. She shoots out her right hand, aiming for the bridge of his nose, but the man turns and deflects the blow on his cheekbone. As redness puffs on his face, he turns back to her with a smile that’s as pleasant as a crack in a frozen lake, and curls his fingers more tightly around her forearm. Despite her resolve to show no fear, Musichetta winces as the bones in her wrist squeeze together.

“You’re a mouthy one. You remind me of my wife. I _hated_ my wife.”

The past tense chills Musichetta’s blood. With her right hand, she scrabbles frantically beneath the counter, reaching for the gun, but realizes that the handle is out of her reach. If she tries to hit him over the head with it but isn’t quick enough, he’ll take it from her and most likely use it against her. She glances around the room, but the few patrons have either cleared out or they’re hiding.

 _Thanks a big,_ she thinks wildly, as the man’s eyes flash, and he smiles.

“Hey! Let go of her, you son of a bitch!”

The man releases Musichetta’s arm so abruptly that she stumbles backward, and he doesn’t even hesitate, but makes off for the back door of the Musain at a speed that Bahorel can’t duplicate, although he does try, sprinting to the back room in hot pursuit. Musichetta sits herself down on the stool behind the bar, and takes up the shotgun firmly, holding the gun in both hands like it’s her only lifeline even as her arm throbs furiously. Her vision swims momentarily, and she has to take several deep breaths while staring at the floor, trying to ground herself.

“Chetta?”

Without thinking, she swings the gun up in Bahorel’s direction, her finger already pressing on the trigger. Bahorel ducks as the slug whizzes past him and embeds itself in the exposed brick wall, the shotgun blast loud enough to deafen all sound in the bar.

“Hey, hey, hey. It’s me. You’re okay.”

Musichetta forces herself to put the gun down on the bartop and engage the safety. When she backs away with trembling hands, Bahorel comes around the bar and pulls her into his arms.

“You’re okay. Did he hurt you?”

She shakes her head. “Did you get him?”

Bahorel scowls, shame flitting over his features. “No, I didn’t. I’m sorry. He ran like the hounds of Hades were after him. We can file a police report, though, if you’re okay with that.” He gives her a gentle squeeze with his arms, a sharp contrast to what the stranger had done, and when he speaks again, his voice is apologetic. “I’m so sorry, Chetta. Wrestling practice got out late today, and I came as quickly as I could.”

Musichetta takes a deep breath, and then another. When she’s slightly more in control of herself, she dredges up a smile that feels completely alien onto her face. “Don’t apologize. I’m pretty sure you got here at the right moment.” 


	12. Coincidence? Probably Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Feuilly gets into trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This really struck home for me, because I've been having problems with internships/jobs right now myself, even though I planned this a while back. Also it's a short chapter -- sorry about that. I'm trying to keep afloat of this story plus the one I have to write for my class, and it's a lot harder than I thought.

It takes Feuilly a moment to realize what the woman at the advisement center has told him. She’s staring blandly at him, brass nameplate and computer and stationery positioned at perfect angles on her desk, the very picture of administrative competence. He can barely comprehend her words over the buzzing in his ears.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, could you say that again?”

The look she gives him borders on disapproval, and she sighs, as if incredibly put out. “Nicolas, you don’t have any internship applications. You said you got locked out of your student account — and that _has_ been reset for you — but I’m looking up your records, and there is no sign that you’ve applied for any internships or job postings anywhere.”

“But — that’s impossible. I applied for over a hundred internships. Some of those applications are already past due —”

This time, the woman — her nameplate reads Stephanie Du Barry — appears sympathetic, but still firmly polite. “I’m very sorry, young man. The only recourse you have is to reapply to what postings you still can at this point.”

Everything is on autopilot from there. Feuilly thanks the woman woodenly and manages to walk out before he drops bonelessly down on a bench and puts his face in his hands.

Every application requires at least an hour to fill out, and different companies have to be researched. He’s calculated that he’s spent 200 hours or more at least on his applications, and they’re in the middle of the winter semester. He needs an internship to graduate, to fill out his resume, and right now he’s back to square one, ground zero. He should start right now, to catch up what time he’s lost, but he finds that he can’t budge an inch.

His student account should have been secure, but someone’s hacked into it, changed his password, barred him from its access — only to do this. It’s all the more paralyzing to realize that this unknown hacker has hit him at the very heart of his insecurities and worries. He doesn’t have the resources that the other Amis do, of a backup in family members and savings. Every penny he’s got goes into his tuition and rent; he hardly has enough money to buy himself food. He needs an internship that would propel him into a job, and without either, he’s falling through the air without a net.

Worse of all, he can’t tell the others. They have more important, more dangerous issues to worry about — everyone’s physical safety is at risk, according to Gavroche. What does he have to lose but an internship or job offer, and hours that he simply can’t spare due to his three jobs and the 18 credits of classwork he’s taking? Those are minor inconveniences compared to the others’ wellbeing, never mind that they’re not minor to him.

Victoire finds him still sitting despondently on the bench half an hour later. She doesn’t say anything when she sits down next to him; all she does is to put her slender arm around him and allows him to drop his face down into her shoulder.

They both remain there for a long time, staring at the setting sun through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls of the business building. There aren’t enough words between the two of them to break the impenetrable silence.


	13. Subway Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras plucks up the courage to go try and see his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: there are mentions of abuse/ violence in this chapter. PLEASE be warned. I apologize if this is too sensitive or intense for anyone, because I don't mean to make light of these bad situations -- this is just my personal portrayal of Enjolras' past, and the storyline that I've picked from the start. If you or anyone has been in such situations, I salute you, because nothing like this should ever happen to ANYONE, and abusers should all be made to suffer the worst punishments available. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope I don't upset anybody, because that is not my intention.

Enjolras can’t stop fidgeting.

He’s sitting on a hard plastic seat on the subway, because he sold his car two days ago. The Prius was getting too expensive to keep up, and besides, the subway is a lot more affordable, and the other Amis have cars if he needs them to drive him anywhere. He doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to be a bother for yet another thing that they are obligated to help him with. Without his car, his journey back home will take two and a half hours, but time is now less important than his mother’s condition.

He should do his homework, or at least grade for his classes, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stares out of the window at the city whizzing past, his red backpack sitting untouched on the chair next to him.

It’s been twenty days, almost three weeks, since he and Grantaire argued. Enjolras misses the feel of Grantaire’s body next to his — and yes, the sex they’ve shared — and the sight of his boyfriend painting or cooking or even scowling in his direction. At meetings, Grantaire always leaves before Enjolras can talk to him; their schedules are different enough that he can’t pretend to run into Grantaire on campus. Through some sort of mutually unspoken agreement, they haven’t texted each other — probably because anything Enjolras says would upset Grantaire even more, and he clearly doesn’t miss Enjolras.

These twenty days have felt like a lifetime, and Enjolras feels extraordinarily lost without Grantaire. He _misses_ Grantaire, and there’s a hole in his chest that can’t be fixed except by the sight of that smiling face, and the sensation of those devilish lips on his.

_Focus. What you’re going to do has nothing to do with Grantaire right now._

Enjolras would have asked Combeferre or Courfeyrac to come with him. They know his mother, after all. But Courfeyrac is with Jehan — they haven’t been out of each other’s sight since Jehan’s burial scare — and Combeferre is far too busy to indulge Enjolras on his whims like this one. He can’t have them babying him forever.

So he waits until he’s an hour into his train ride before he texts Combeferre. He fishes his phone out from his backpack, which he settles in his lap.

 

 **Enjolras:** I’m going to try and see my mother, if you’re wondering where I am for the moment.

 **Ferre:** You’re so obstinate. Why didn’t you wait for me to give you a ride?

 **Enjolras:** You’re busy enough. It’s okay. I’ll let you know how it goes.

 **Ferre:** Do you want me to pick you up afterwards?

 

That would be nice, except Enjolras’ argument still stands — Combeferre has enough things on his plate to do every single day. Likewise, he doesn’t want to bother any of the others — the fact that there are two or more armed and dangerous madmen out there to get the Amis is enough to make Enjolras keep his piddling little problems to himself. He’s been worrying himself sick thinking up contingency plans and buddy systems and synchronizing schedules, and he still feels like the ground has vanished from under all of their feet.

 

 **Enjolras:** I’ll let you know.

 **Ferre:** Text me when you get done, okay?

 **Enjolras:** Okay. Bye.

 

He’s completely immersed in his own thoughts about the others, about his mother and Alain, about his classes and homework and responsibilities — so immersed that he doesn’t even realize his eyelids are heavy, and dipping shut. Before he realizes it, he’s asleep — and dreaming.

 

_“You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Show me how good you are.”_

_“No, no, no. Please.”_

_The hand that’s touching his leg rises sharply to slap him hard on the cheek. Fire roars up in his face, and it hurts so much that he whimpers. He doesn’t want the hands on him, but he doesn’t want to get hit, either. Both hurt a lot, but in different ways._

_“Don’t give me any of your lip, boy. You like it; I know you do. Now shut up. If I hear you be rude again, you won’t be sitting down for a week.”_

_There’s the sound of a zipper being pulled down, and a hand fists at the back of his head, forcing his face forward._

_“Lick the lollipop, kiddo. And remember — if you bite me again, I’ll break your other arm.”_

 

Enjolras jerks awake with a gasp that fills his lungs with air. He lurches forward, his backpack toppling off his lap, and he nearly knocks foreheads with the young woman who’s partially crouched down in front of him. She catches the backpack and thrusts it back towards him. Hovering behind her is a young man who speaks, and it takes Enjolras a minute to understand what he’s saying.

“Hey, are you okay? You look like you were having a nightmare, so Alceste thought it would best to wake you. Sorry about shaking you awake and all.”

“N-no,” Enjolras manages to stutter. “Thank you.”

The young couple gives him a smile and a shrug, the man clearly embarrassed; the woman more obviously concerned. She looks him over shrewdly before asking, “Are you going to be okay?”

Enjolras nods. The heady terror he’s feeling is starting to ebb, although his heart is still jackhammering in his chest. He inhales deeply in an attempt to slow his rapid breathing. “Yes. Thank you.”

As the couple moves off, he tries to hold on to the last vestiges of the nightmare, but what remains dissipates like smoke through his figurative fingers. Over the past few months, he hasn’t been able to remember his dreams. All that ever lingers in his consciousness are the feelings of paralyzing fear and mute obedience, like he’s a sheep bound for a slaughter he can’t fathom.

When the train slows to a halt, he looks groggily out the window to see that he’s slept three stops past the one at which he needs to get off.

Forget the nightmare — he’s fortunate these Good Samaritans woke him, because those three additional stops have just tacked another fifteen minutes into his cramped schedule. By the time he gets his things together and steps out onto the platform, Enjolras is far too annoyed to realize that he has already forgotten his dream and the significance thereof.


	14. The One Time Bossuet's Luck Is Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which tis Bossuet's turn to get his scary moment.

He’s got a letter. Or at least a cross between a letter and a small package. A letter-age. Or a pack-ter. Whatever.

Bossuet examines it in his hands. It’s a big brown manila envelope that’s pretty heavy, the kind with bubble wrap, and it’s addressed to him, written in thick black block letters with a Sharpie marker. Not Joly, not Chetta; just him. There’s no return address.

He doesn’t usually get mail. No one does, in this technology age. He communicates on a daily basis with his family, and his friend circle is concentrated mostly in Les Amis. Maybe this is a distant relative who wants to get a hold of him. Usually it’s Chetta’s extended family from Asia who mails packages, so having something sent directly to him is kind of exciting.

He’s been trying to unplug the bathtub when the doorbell rang. He opened the door to find nobody around, and the envelope resting against the doorframe. Now he carries the envelope back to the bathroom and cradles it in his hands while he stands over the half-full bathtub.

Joly hasn’t taken a bath for a couple of days now, deciding instead that he’s going to shower, because he claims it’s disgusting and that the bathtub is just a petri dish of bacteria whenever it clogs. Bossuet tries to reassure him that it’s only Chetta’s long hair that stops up the drain, and that they just need to shop for Drano every other month, or get a drain trap, but Joly still refuses to do it. It’s a simple task that Bossuet likes handling, mainly because it’ll make Joly feel better and it’s domestic enough that he feels like he’s helping Chetta with the housework when, in reality, he usually has to get out of the way or he’ll break a bowl or drop a pot on his foot or slip in Clorox.

He sets the envelope down on the side of the tub, gently, and reaches for the milk-jug-sized bottle of Drano. He manages to unscrew the cap and tip the thick, viscous goo into the drain, but in his rush, he knocks the envelope with his elbow into the bathtub.

It’s one of those slow-motion moments where Bossuet can practically see himself, reaching out in vain to grab the envelope with wide eyes and an even wider mouth, the spectacular splash that the envelope makes as it slaps and sinks into the water.

The envelope _sinks_ into the water. It doesn’t float. It doesn’t bob. It doesn’t even gently tumble into the water like he expects it to. No, it collapses straight down like an anvil, like it’s full of metal or something. He knows it is heavy; this just seems kind of ominous for some reason.

Huh. Weird.

Bossuet groans to himself — whatever’s in that envelope is now ruined — and he plunges his hand into the bathwater so that he can retrieve the envelope. He can’t quite manage it with the now-empty Drano bottle, so he tosses the latter wildly back towards the trash basket, missing it entirely, and hastily fishes the envelope out of the tub, placing it carefully atop the closed lid of the toilet. He dries his hand on one of Joly’s dirty towels — his fiance would have a fit if he finds out — and then turns back to the toilet and the soaking wet package.

Then he pauses and stares for a very long time. When he finally finds his legs again, he backs out of the room like there’s a tiger waiting to spring at him, closes the bathroom door, and takes several more paces into the living room, where he fumbles blindly for his phone.

“Joly? Baby… I need you to come back down here to the flat. Right now.”

“What’s wrong?” Joly’s voice starts to rise in pitch, already panicked. “I’m on my way. Should I let Chetta know? The Musain is closer to you than St. Mary’s.”

“No, no need to tell Chetta just yet… in fact, we should keep her away from the flat as long as possible. Just saying.”

“Bossuet, what happened?”

Bossuet manages to keep his voice steady. “I need to hang up, Joly, love. I’ll tell you everything when you get here, okay? Right now I have to call the cops — and a bomb squad.” 


	15. Random Title Here Because It's 3 AM And I'm Too Tired To Think Of One Properly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Combeferre is basically Les Amis' dad and has a moment with Ep and Joly.

“A letter bomb?”

Eponine’s voice sounds incredulous over the phone, and Combeferre sighs. He can’t exactly believe it himself, but the evidence can’t be denied: a fat 8-by 10-inch cardboard mailer that’s soaked through to reveal the contents within. There’s a handful of wires tied together in a complicated knot, some nails, what looks like a stick of TNT, and something else that looks like it could be a blasting cap, but he’s not entirely sure. Combeferre had an uncle in the military, and he’s shown Combeferre and his cousins and siblings bomb ingredients before, back when he was still alive. Ironically, his relative died in a car wreck rather than the streets of Afghanistan.

“Looks that way.”

“What’s going on right now?”

“Joly and Bossuet are talking to the cops, but Chetta’s still at work. The bomb squad’s taken the envelope away, but they’ve verified that it was a legit letter bomb. A working letter bomb.”

Eponine makes a sound like she’s letting out the breath she’s been holding since Combeferre called her. “Someone almost killed Bossuet? And Joly, and Chetta?”

“The detectives said that the bomb wouldn’t have been big enough to take out their flat. More like it would have ‘just’ disfigured him and others around him.”

Eponine huffs a laugh that sounds so forced, Combeferre winces. “Only _just_ , huh?”

“I made sure the cop knew of his poor choice of words.”

“I’m sure you did.” This time, he can hear the smile in her voice, and it’s actually genuine, before it dies back down to worry. “Ferre — what’s going on?”

He knows what she means, and he clenches his hand more tightly around the phone, because it’s a topic they’ve broached several times without success.

“I don’t know.”

“All of us besieged at once. It’s not natural.”

“Not all of us,” Combeferre comments, almost to himself, trying to remain objective.

“Bullshit. Cosette’s dad. Gav and Zelma. Celine and Chetta. Now this. A letter bomb? This is serious, and things are getting too hot, and we are helpless. I can’t do anything to protect the people I love!”

“You forgot Feuilly,” Combeferre points out, and then winces at his mistake. It won’t do any good to rile his fiancee up even more. “I don’t like it either, Ponine, but maybe this just happens to be a series of unfortunate events. You’re right, though, about Bossuet — this isn’t coincidence. His name was on the envelope. Apart from the cops, though, there’s really nothing we can do.”

“Have you told Courf or Enj yet? Or any of the others?”

“Courf is with Jehan right now, and Enjolras is on a personal errand. Joly says we shouldn’t bother them for now, anyway. The police are investigating the matter, and until something substantial turns up…”

Combeferre trails off, and his mind is racing over his thoughts. Eponine completes his words for him.

“They can’t do anything. _We_ can’t do anything.”

“I think they do need to get out of there, though,” Combeferre admits. “If someone got a hold of their address, they’re not safe there, at least not right now. But where can they go?”

“The biggest apartment Les Amis has is still Enjolras’,” Eponine points out bluntly. “I honestly think we would all be safer knowing what’s going on, because keeping one eye over our shoulders is safer than walking in ignorance. It’s not bliss when you’re not paying attention to the shadow behind you.”

Combeferre sighs. “All right. We’re having a potluck over at Cosette and Marius’ tonight again. That’s where we can ask what everybody thinks. In the meantime, I’ll text Enjolras right now.”

“What would we do without you?” Eponine asks rhetorically. She blows several kisses into the line and hangs up.

“Ferre?”

Joly is standing in the doorway to the outside of the flat.

“Where’s Bossuet?”

Joly tries to smile, and it looks weak. “The cop’s still with him. Don’t worry, I don’t aim on letting him out of my sight any time soon.”

Combeferre claps a hand on Joly’s shoulder and squeezes gently. He can feel Joly trembling ever so slightly. “So what’s going on?”

“The police think it’ll be good for us to clear out of the flat for a couple of days. Lie low for a bit before we get back and go to a hotel or something. Unfortunately, they’re not footing the bill, so we’re still in need of somewhere to go. Maybe the apartment over the Musain?”

“Sounds good, since we only use it for emergencies — except that Chetta had her little issue at the Musain. What about Enjolras’ and Grantaire’s? It’s about time I started moving all my stuff out to Ep’s place, anyway.”

Joly’s eyes widen. “You told the others?” he asks, and he sounds almost accusatory in its panic, like Combeferre has betrayed his trust. “Ferre, I don’t want the others worrying about us.”

Combeferre studies his friend and fellow doctor-to-be. Joly’s dark brown hair is mussed, like he’s grabbed it and yanked on it several times over the past hour. His big brown eyes are clouded with worry, and he keeps clenching and opening his fists, over and over again. Combeferre knows he’s desperately trying not to gnaw on his fingertips like he’s used to in the past. It’s a nervous tic that won’t do well in their workplace, and which drives him crazy anyway since it’s a habit conducive to pathogens and the transfer of sickness. Sure enough, one hand starts going up unconsciously before it falls back down into Joly’s lap. As if on autopilot, he pulls a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer out of his pocket and squirts a gob out onto his hand before rubbing it all over his fingers and palms.

“I warrant that it would be easier for them to worry than to think nothing is wrong and have that sense of complacency lull them into danger,” Combeferre says gently. “We’re all going to look out for one another, and this is one way to do it. We love you three, and we’re not leaving you to handle this on your own.”


	16. Sneaky Hospital Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras finally gets to see Maryse.

Enjolras fidgets as he walks into the hospital. He can’t help it. This place brings back all kinds of bad memories — it’s the same place where Alain wasted away, and the same place where he’s come countless times because his father took his temper out on him. He can almost catalog the different events: broken right arm, sprained wrist, sprained ankle, several concussions, to name just a few incidents. Most of them took place at home when his mother wasn’t around, but for some reason he broke his arm at the playground near his house. It’s only an odd memory because Sebastien hates taking him to the park — Enjolras has only ever gone accompanied by either Maryse, Alain, or Agathe — but Enjolras distinctly remembers the fear in the pit of his stomach as his father prodded him up to the monkey bars. Or was it from falling off a swing? He has many memories that are hazy and vague as this, but it’s never bothered him till now.

He’s got one of Grantaire’s beanies pulled down over his distinctive blond hair, but he feels naked in this place. If any of the older doctors or nurses are still present, they’d recognize him, and he’s sure that his father has told them to keep him away. He has to run the risk, though. Combeferre’s mother told him over the phone last night that Maryse’s cancer is now in its third stage and still going strong. No matter how afraid Enjolras is of his father, he has to go check up on his mother and reassure himself that she’s relatively okay. He misses her, and the thought of her succumbing to this demon frightens him even more than what Sebastien could do.

Sophie Combeferre’s told him the room number. Hunching his shoulders, Enjolras follows an Asian family through the double doors as they chatter away in what sounds like Korean to one another. He forces himself to walk like he has a purpose instead of shuffling. For the umpteenth time, he wishes for features that don’t resemble his parents’ faces so uncannily.

He makes it onto the elevator, hidden behind a Hispanic couple and a family of tall blond amazons. He stops his fingers from drumming on his jeans leg — a habit he’s unconsciously picked up from Combeferre — and waits for the elevator beep to announce his arrival to the fifth floor.

All goes well, and he manages to sneak into Room 501. There are no hospital personnel anywhere around, and before he shuts the door, he grabs the medical chart from the slot on the wall.

Most of the information does not make sense to him, and he wishes vainly that he allowed Combeferre to come along. As he moves to set the chart down, several words do stand out on the pages: “nausea”, “weight loss”, and “reacting poorly to chemotherapy treatments.” His hands shake so much that the clipboard drops from his hands onto the floor with a clatter that makes him jump.

“Hello?”

Maryse’s voice calls out from the bed in the massive hospital room — this one a luxuriously furnished private suite — and Enjolras feels his heart skyrocket into his mouth. He sets the clipboard down on a table and moves into view where his mother can see him.

“Maman?”

The word leaps from his mouth as if on wings. He used to call his mother by that term when he was young, and he can’t remember when he stopped using it, or why.

He hears her gasp in muted delight before he even sees her. “Adrien, baby. I’ve missed you.”

Enjolras is in the chair next to her bed and holding one of her hands between both of his when he realizes just how bad she looks. The amount of weight she’s lost is startling — the bones of her face are more prominent, and the rest of her is just as lean. Surprisingly, her blond hair is still mostly intact — he knows that it should have all fallen out by now, but by some miracle it hasn’t yet done so — but it looks lank and lifeless. He squeezes her hand, gently, and is only mildly reassured when she squeezes back and he can see the light of spirit and intelligence still undimmed in her eyes despite the medication and the sickness.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it here any earlier,” he babbles. “Father changed the phone numbers, and Agathe doesn’t use E-mail. He wouldn’t return any of my calls. I had to wait for Ferre’s mother to find out your hospital and room number last night before I could even come.”

“She told me,” Maryse says wearily, but the old mischief stirs in her eyes the way Enjolras remembers. “She went about it in quite a clever way. She stopped by the house and found Agathe when your father and Louis weren’t home. Even persuaded the guard to let her in without signing on the log, too. Don’t worry, darling. I don’t blame you at all. I don’t understand why Sebastien insists on alienating me, but if I was ever awake when he’s around, I would tell him what an ass he’s being. What an ass he _is_.”

“Don’t bother. He’s never going to change his mind about what a disappointment I am.”

Maryse’s eyes flash. “Sebastien is an idiot. You are not a disappointment, young man, and don’t let me hear you saying that again.”

“Yes, Maman,” Enjolras answers automatically.

“So tell me, darling,” Maryse says, her voice softening from its sharp reprimand to loving concern. “How are you and your sweet friends doing? I miss them nearly as much as I miss you.”

Enjolras smiles and launches into different tales of what the other Amis have been up to. He’s careful to avoid all mention of the troubles plaguing them, as well as his fight with Grantaire. In the process, he also tries not to talk about Grantaire, because even the name of his boyfriend on his lips gives him a pang that hurts almost physically as it does emotionally. They haven’t ever gone this long without talking, and he keeps entertaining the fact that maybe they’re not meant to be, if they fight like this all the time. When there’s a break in the conversation, he asks her about her visitors and how her own set of friends — mainly Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Jehan’s parents — are doing. He deliberately steers the conversation away from his father and Louis, or her ignorance about Sebastien cutting him off, or the cancer and her prospects.

Every breath she draws, every smile she gives him, and every word she speaks, is measurably more labored than it was in the past. He knows without anyone telling him that she’s started going downhill, and there likely won’t be any earthly relief at the end of the tunnel.

Right before he goes, he kisses her on the forehead and promises that he’ll return again as regularly as he can when Sebastien isn’t there.

“He comes in the evenings occasionally,” Maryse says drily. “He thinks I don’t know, because sometimes I pretend to sleep when he’s around. The afternoons are for business.” She reaches out and grabs Enjolras’ hand to give it a quick squeeze. “Darling, promise me two things.”

“Anything.”

“You may think I’m weak when this is all over, for putting up with him. Promise me that you’ll remember that I love you, no matter what, and what I did I had no choice but to do for you and Alain. You both have been my pride and joy and my true loves.”

“I promise.” Enjolras’ voice breaks. “I love you, Maman. I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you too.” Maryse’s voice is soft with affection as she withdraws her hand, and her eyes flutter closed. Before Enjolras stands up from his chair, she’s already asleep. He watches her chest move gently for a few minutes before he finally walks out the door, eager to make his escape before his father comes and sees him.

He doesn’t call Combeferre. It’s only when he’s on the train back to Manhattan that the tears finally come.


	17. Repentance and Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We can’t go on like this,” Grantaire says firmly. “We can’t keep on arguing and fighting and hurting each other and then making up for it and getting back into the swing of things and then fighting again. It’s not healthy for you, or for me, and it’s certainly not healthy for our friends. Relationships are supposed to be healthy and happy. I love you, and I know you love me, and I want to stay together — but we need to fix some things."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg I am so sorry for the mothereffingly long hiatus. Dealing with depression and anxiety and breakups and pityriasis rosea (look it up; mine is a crazy extreme case that is stumping even the dermatologist I went to) is actually surprisingly time-and-energy-consuming. I promise this summer to post more regularly and to finish this. I have an idea for the Big Bang and I'm excited so I want to wrap this up to be fair to you guys. 
> 
> Thank you for being so awesome and supportive, to all the people who commented and made me want to finish this fic! I love you guys. Please remember, in the words of KJack89, to tip the authors in the form of comments and/or kudos! You all are the best!

“Why didn’t you text me? I could have come to pick you up.”

Combeferre sounds more tired than angry, and Enjolras feels a familiar pang of guilt that’s bitter as gall. He swallows and adjusts his grip on the phone, pushing his toes against the insides of his red Converses. He doesn’t know what to say, and after hearing the story of what Bossuet faced this morning, the lake of his words has completely dried up.

“No matter,” Combeferre says, changing the subject, and Enjolras is glad he has. He’s still feeling gloomy after visiting his mother, and he really doesn’t want to feel even more guilty over yet another thing. “Are you coming to the potluck tonight? We need to figure out a plan of action.”

“I’ll be there,” Enjolras promises rashly. He’s got things to get done, but his friends always come first in his book. He tries to make that happen as much as he can, anyway.

“Sounds good.” Combeferre hangs up, and Enjolras almost feels ashamed for the relief that sweeps over him. If Combeferre has a flaw, it’s that he can be _too_ perceptive at times, and Enjolras doesn’t want to burden him even more with the epiphany of his mother’s impending death. People die all the time. He’s not the first to lose someone he loves — in fact, thanks to Alain, this _isn’t_ the first time he’s going to lose someone he loves. Surely he should be used to it by now. At the very least, he has absolutely nothing to complain about. There are millions of people out there who have worse circumstances than he does — the same people for whom Les Amis are fighting to provide a voice. If Enjolras has to suffer, he’s doing it with a lot of very good company.

Somehow the thought doesn’t make him feel any better.

The key turns in the lock of the front door, and Enjolras only has a few seconds to be surprised before the door opens to reveal Grantaire standing right there. Brilliant blue eyes meet his, and Enjolras tries very hard not to flinch.

“Can we talk?” Grantaire asks.

“What about?” Enjolras forces himself to turn his back as he heads to the kitchen, unwilling to meet Grantaire’s all-seeing gaze.

“That’s exactly what I mean. You and me both avoiding the subject and what needs to be said. What needs to be fixed.”

“If we want it to be fixed.”

He doesn’t expect Grantaire’s eyes to go wide and dark, even as hurt flits over his face. His voice is disbelieving when he actually speaks. “Do you _not_ want it to be fixed?”

“No! Of course I want it to. It’s just, it’s just that we’re always fighting. Over the dumbest things imaginable. Is it supposed to be like this? Why can’t we be like the others, where they’re always able to sit down and work out their differences, while we always fight?”

“If you want to be with one of the others —” Grantaire says, and there’s a sad look in his eyes, so Enjolras cuts him off before he can keep going.

“Stop right there. _Listen,_ R. I’m not talking about the others. I’m talking about us. I want to fix this, but did you ever think about the possibility that maybe we’re not meant to be together, no matter how much we both want to? Maybe life has just decided that no matter how compatible we think we are, we can’t make it. Life doesn’t want us to work out. Maybe.”

 _Don’t sink into the muck of thinking this is your fault or that I don’t want you,_ he’s thinking, maybe even pleading. _I just don’t know what to do anymore._

Grantaire’s face clears. He walks further into the apartment, forcing Enjolras to backpedal, even as he holds Enjolras’ gaze. He sets his bag down — Enjolras realizes that Grantaire is carrying his backpack, like he wants to actually come back and live in the apartment, and a treacherous leap of hope stabs him in the heart.

“What happened, Enjolras?”

He starts to fumble for an excuse, any excuse, and Grantaire holds up a hand like he’s 400% done with his shit.

“I know about Bossuet. I’m asking you what happened to _you.”_

So he just opens his mouth and starts talking. He’s tired of pretending things are fine. He’s tired of fighting with Grantaire, tired of feeling run down and angry and hopeful and heartbroken all at once. Halfway through, when he talks about his mother, Grantaire takes his hand and doesn’t let go, and Enjolras curls his fingers around that familiar palm and tries not to think too much into the gesture.

“I’m going to be frank, Enjolras, because I think you deserve it,” Grantaire finally says, and his voice is serious. Enjolras’ heart drops down into his shoes.

“Look, if you want to break up with me, I get it —”

Grantaire rolls his eyes at that and goes on like Enjolras hasn’t said a word. He doesn’t let go of Enjolras’ hand, and it’s more reassuring than it should be.

“We can’t go on like this,” Grantaire says firmly. “We can’t keep on arguing and fighting and hurting each other and then making up for it and getting back into the swing of things and then fighting again. It’s not healthy for you, or for me, and it’s certainly not healthy for our friends. Relationships are supposed to be healthy and happy.”

He was going to break up with Enjolras. No, no, no. Enjolras’ throat constricted, and there was a ringing in his ears.

“I can see you thinking, Apollo. Stop it. I’m not finished. I don’t want to break up. I love you, and I know you love me, and I want to stay together — but we need to fix some things. We both have tempers — and that’s not bad; we’re working on them. What’s bad is that we both have different kinds of tempers and we’ve been trying to force each other to conform to the way we operate. You anger easily, but you get over it just as easily; you prefer confrontation so that the issue gets fixed and put behind you more quickly. My temper’s a slow burn, and lasts long; I prefer to mull over things and then fix them later. For us to work out and not fight all the time — I don’t care how awesome the sex is afterwards; I would prefer going straight to the sex and not fighting at all — we have to compromise on our styles. If I walk away, I want you to know I’m not driven away. I have to work things out, especially now that I don’t drink. If you confront me, I need to know that it’s because you want to fix it and not because you want to make it worse. When we’re mad, we need to both take a step back and a deep breath, and not be offended. Remember that we love each other and we want to keep it that way. Does any of this make sense? Do you agree with me?”

Enjolras nods, _yes_ to both questions, and then to his utmost shame, his eyes start to burn and fill. The tears come quickly, and he doesn’t even know what’s wrong, what’s going on, because Grantaire is here, Grantaire is _here_ , and he wants to fix things, and he knows what Enjolras wants. Grantaire’s words have gone right to his heart. He doesn’t know if it’s stress or relief or frustration that’s overwhelming him now, and he’s so tired that he can barely think. It’s not just a physical exhaustion; it’s a fatigue that extends itself to emotional overload as well.

Grantaire tenderly takes Enjolras’ chin in his hands and plants a quick, soft kiss on his lips. He stands up, taking Enjolras by the hand again, and leads him to the bedroom. Rather than passion, he opts for comfort, making Enjolras lie down and then curling up in the bed next to him.

“For what it’s worth,” Grantaire murmurs into his ear, “I’m sorry.”

 _So am I,_ he thinks, and tries to say, pulling at Grantaire’s sleeve, and he’s not sure the words have left his lips when he falls asleep in Grantaire’s arms.


	18. Sparks Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> R keeps trying to catch Celine’s attention and give her the stinkeye, but she’s determinedly avoiding her brother’s gaze. It probably doesn’t escape anyone’s attention that she and Bahorel are sitting really close together, shoulder to shoulder, but nobody has said anything. 
> 
> Yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The muse has caught me twice today. Enjoy :)
> 
> I'm hopefully finally moving the plot along haha.
> 
> P.S. the state I'm in says that carrying knives less than 5 inches is okay. Idk if that's the same in New York, and if it isn't, I apologize.

“We need a plan of attack.”

Enjolras looks stressed, judging from the dark circles around his eyes and the way his clothes just kind of seem to hang off of him. From the way Grantaire talks about him all the time, Celine’s expected to see a god when she got to NYU and met Enjolras for the first time. He seemed so powerful and supernaturally confident before. However, she likes him better as a friend and a relatable human being — and potential future brother-in-law? _Don’t think like that just yet, girl._

It helps seeing R sitting right next to him on his left — _looks like maybe they’re back to normal, hopefully_ — with Combeferre at Enjolras’ right. Everyone’s here tonight for the potluck — Cosette, naturally, has cooked up a spread fit for a king, with Chetta and Eponine helping. The others have brought drinks and snacks, and plates have been filled before the group moved over to the living room. There’s more room for everybody, along with Marius’ wheelchair.

Celine herself is sitting right next to Bahorel, and damn if that boy cleans up well. He frequently has scraped knuckles, but he hardly ever gets facial bruises, which is nice. He has a nice face — very square-jawed, very rugged — and Celine can’t help but be hypnotized by those eternal brown eyes and clefted chin. He looks a lot like Daniel Craig, and heaven knows Celine has always been the biggest sucker for the actor. Right now he’s wearing a green sweater under a black leather trenchcoat, and he’s even wearing cologne.

R keeps trying to catch Celine’s attention and give her the stinkeye, but she’s determinedly avoiding her brother’s gaze. It probably doesn’t escape anyone’s attention that she and Bahorel are sitting really close together, shoulder to shoulder, but nobody has said anything.

Yet.

“We need information," Enjolras continues. "Right now we’re getting lots of puzzle pieces but not enough to form an actual, usable picture. Azelma, Chetta, Celine, Bossuet, Feuilly, Marius and Jehan, and Judge Valjean — they’ve all been targeted somehow. Lots of seemingly unrelated incidents, but all happening at the same time to prove that this isn’t just a coincidence of epic proportions. Gavroche said that he was told by a stranger that we should watch our backs, so I think we should assume that these problems are all connected somehow and that future ones might occur.”

“There are people on the street we could ask,” Eponine says, and she locks eyes with R, who seems to uncomfortably understand what she’s talking about. Enjolras doesn’t seem to notice, but Combeferre gives R a narrow-eyed look that Celine catches.

“Right now I’m handing out knives and pepper spray,” Bahorel says. “No arguments. Practice how to open the blades without giving yourself a paper cut. The sprays are pretty simple. They’re on a safety lock, so just push the tab like this and press. It’s easy enough — NYPD uses them, and we know some of them are definitely not rocket scientists. I want you to hang them on your keys, put them on your belts, keep them in your pockets, whatever.”

“Are knives okay for carrying?” Azelma calls out. She’s flicked open her knife — of course she and Ep wouldn’t have a problem opening the knives right off the bat like they’re pro gangsters — and now she’s turning the blade over, examining it from every angle. When Bahorel hands Celine her knife, the last one to receive it, he keeps his fingers against hers for longer than he should, and a frisson of sparks fizzle in the bottom of Celine’s stomach.

“Anything shorter than five inches is fine in the state of New York,” Bahorel answers, but his eyes remain on Celine’s. “These ones are Smith & Wesson; a little over three inches. Don’t be reckless, but keep them on you. Remember at the end of the day you can’t bring a knife to a gunfight; they’re just there for self-defense. No tricks, okay?”

“We aren’t like that,” Joly protests quietly.

“I know,” Bahorel says, turning to smile reassuringly at him. “It’s just a disclaimer. Be careful, okay?”

“I’ll get Papa to pester Javert down at the local precinct,” Cosette suggests. “They butt heads a lot but Javert’s fair. He won’t let the law be mocked by these guys, whoever they are.”

“We need to set up an emergency contingency plan for any future problems,” Combeferre suggests. He produces his laptop and a small stack of identical photocopied diagrams. “Here’s what I’ve got set up. Feel free to chime in at any given point in time. I’m not perfect; I’ve probably made mistakes, so we can all benefit from feedback.”

 _Probably._ Knowing him, he hasn’t made even the shadow of an error. _It’s_ Combeferre _, come on, people._ Celine smiles at her own sassy thoughts.

As the others lean in, she sees Eponine whispering in R’s ear. Her brother doesn’t look happy at whatever Eponine’s said, but he leans over to kiss Enjolras on the cheek and says something quiet to him before slipping out of his seat and heading for the door. She squeezes Bahorel’s arm in apology, sliding the knife into her jacket pocket, and stands up to follow her brother outside.

He’s moving fast. By the time she walks out, he's already practically turning the corner, and she runs to catch up with him. "Where are you going?”

R jumps and scowls at her. Clearly he hasn’t expected her to see him, much less follow him out without her things. “None of your business.”

“It is my business,” she counters. “I just want to make sure you’re okay and not going off on a crazy train. Have you patched things up with Enjolras?”

“Yes.” R’s smile lights his face momentarily, before his expression clouds back over. “I just have something I need to get done.”

“What’s that?”

R hesitates and frowns. “Look, don’t let this get back to Enjolras, okay? We only just fixed things. I really want it to work and I don’t want him unhinged by idle gossip.”

“You’re going to go see Montparnasse, aren’t you?”

“Not for like a fucking booty call or anything,” R snaps, and then sighs. “Sorry. I’m already on edge just thinking about it. Ep’s right; Enjolras is right. We need information, and Montparnasse is the one to go to for that kind of thing.”

“But you’re with Enjolras. Montparnasse was the hookup, but he’s not the boyfriend. How are you going to —”

“I’ll figure it out.” R’s voice is firm, and his tone is final. “The group is too important to me. I can be a little uncomfortable for the sake of the people I love and care about.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” Celine says, and the warning is clear. She’s still a virgin; she’s always been the more innocent of the two. Her brother has always protected her and looked out for her, and she knows what he can get up to; what he’s capable of. “Don’t do something in the heat of the moment and call it a sacrifice. If you can’t get what you need to know for our sakes, then come back. We’ll work it out. Don’t give him what he doesn’t deserve and what Enjolras does as your boyfriend, okay?”

R looks to be experiencing a combination of startled indignation and offended surprise. When his features morph into rueful consideration of her words, he walks back to her and gives her a quick hug.

“I’ll text you,” he answers, and it’s a _yes_ , of sorts. “Love you, girl. Get back in there, okay?”

“Love you too, R. Be safe. If you don’t text me tonight, I’m sending out the Marines. Or maybe just Bahorel.”

R’s face lights up with a wicked grin, and Celine mentally sighs at giving her brother the outlet she was deliberately holding onto. “About that. Don’t think I didn’t see you two practically cuddling together right there. What is going —”

“Good night!”

R’s laughter follows her back in through the door, and when Celine sits back down next to Bahorel, she ignores Jehan’s knowing smile and Combeferre’s omniscient gaze. 


	19. Catch 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I need your help,” Grantaire finally says. “You’re at total liberty to refuse, or whatever."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there is one of the musical lyrics in here. So sue me. Haha.

Something is wrong. He can sense it.

Well, something is not wrong like _wrong_ wrong — it’s more like something is _not right_. Probably not life-threatening, but you never know. Men have been killed for less, and Montparnasse’s apartment is pretty duded up. Naturally, this happens to be the one day he forgets to set the alarm. No one has ever been stupid enough to break into his place to steal stuff or attack him, but there’s always a first time.

He’s just come back from another hospital visit with Maryse. Every time he goes there, he comes back angry — irritated at himself for going, frustrated at the disease for taking her, furious at Sebastien for what he’s doing to his wife — and, yet, strangely vindicated. Being around Maryse is like being around his mother if she was still alive. It’s almost like reaching out to the other world and having his own mother contact him from the grave.

Now Montparnasse pulls out his Sig-Sauer and yanks back the safety. He schools his breathing until it’s nearly silent, and takes deep breaths so that he can calm his heart rate. Somebody is about to die, and it sure as hell isn’t him.

He slides his key into the lock as quietly and gently as he can. The key barely makes a whisper, metal against metal, and the door clicks open very quietly. He shoves it open in one smooth move, pointing his gun around the corner. The place is completely dark, and no shadows move at Montparnasse’s sudden arrival. All he can hear is the clock ticking on the wall and the flutter of the curtains dancing in the breeze ululating from the open windows.

Damn. He’s going to have to hunt his quarry. His blood starts to rise, and he points the gun in the direction of the dining room, before turning it to the kitchen.

“Put that thing away, Parnasse,” a familiar voice snaps from the living room. “I haven’t hurt you.”

Montparnasse smells oil paint and vanilla in the next instant, and he breathes in a shaky sigh, emotions churning in him like smoothie ingredients in a blender. He’s so relieved that he doesn’t have an itchy trigger finger, because killing _this_ visitor would be unacceptable on all counts. The traitorous jump of his heart doesn’t help matters, and rather than show his softer side, he lashes out. “You asshole, did you think it was such a good idea for you to hide in my apartment and _surprise me?_ I could have killed you, for fuck’s sake. You bloody idiot!”

“Now, now. We both know you’re too much of a professional to make an amateur mistake like that.” Grantaire stands up from where he’s been sitting in the darkened corner of the living room, in between the lamp and the La-Z-Boy. His smile reveals a slash of gleaming white teeth visible even in the dim room. “Besides, you know I could have nailed your hand if you’d _really_ tried to kill me, given that I had the element of surprise.”

“Don’t get cocky, R. Remember who taught you how to throw a knife in the first place.”

“Excuse you. You didn’t teach me how to throw a knife; you taught me how to throw one _better_. There’s a difference.”

“No, that’s splitting hairs.”

“Oh, please.”

Montparnasse laughs, and it loosens a knot in his chest that he didn’t know was there. Seeing Grantaire honestly feels like coming home. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, one that’s out of place in Montparnasse’s mercenary world, and he entertains it while knowing full well that this fairy tale is not his to live and own. Grantaire is not here because he’s changed his mind and walked away from his blond idol. Meanwhile, Montparnasse is handling a project that he should never have touched in the first place — and all for R’s sake. Because if he does this one thing, then it’ll benefit Grantaire in a roundabout way.

Montparnasse is such a loser. He’s sunk to new lows.

“How have you been?” he asks, hating himself for the question, for continuing this conversation. He really should throw Grantaire out of his apartment and get back to his life. Shelf his personal mission permanently and return to his old ways.

But he can’t. In the short time that he and Grantaire were dating, fucking, _whatever,_ the other man has changed Montparnasse more than he ever thought possible. And certainly Maryse has made Montparnasse a better man.

“I’ve been better,” Grantaire says. “And yourself?”

“I —” Montparnasse cuts himself off before he can say _I miss you_ and says instead, “I’m good.”

A moment of lengthy silence ensues, and Montparnasse uses it to visually trace the curve of Grantaire’s brow, the bright blue of his eyes, and the muscularity of his form.

“I need your help,” Grantaire finally says. “You’re at total liberty to refuse, or whatever. I understand that this is a request and not a command, or an obligation.”

Of course Grantaire would feel like that. The guy is so unlike anyone Montparnasse has ever met, and he can deny Grantaire nothing. The man in question drowns himself in wine and sorrows, but in turn showers everyone with help and advice and support. He whiles away his time doing nothing, but at the same time is as knowledgeable and talented as a Renaissance man. He can be cynical and blackhearted, but at the same time there’s no one on this green earth who cares about his friends and family as much as he does. What a riddle. What a man.

_What a fantasy. What kind of life I might have known with him, if circumstances were different._

“Spit it out, R. I haven’t got all night.” 


	20. Zero to Sixty in Three-Point-Five

Sophie Combeferre sighs in relief as she exits Target and fumbles in her purse for her keys. She’s had to run to the store to get some things for Devin’s school project, since he’s working on homework, and there isn’t a necessity for him to go when she is completely at liberty to do so. Now that the evening’s chores are over, though, she can look forward to going home and putting her feet up and having a good long rest with Vincent.

She tosses her things into the backseat and puts her keys into the ignition. As the Audi purrs into life, Sophie checks her phone while buckling her seatbelt, beaming at the smiley text that Luc has sent her. Her firstborn is the balm of her existence. She loves Clarice and Devin, obviously; they’re similar prototypes for filial piety despite their teenage rebelliousness. However, Luc has always been a perfectly balanced, solid-thinking beacon of goodness to everyone around him. Nearly every parent whom Sophie knows envies her for her son, and the selfish part of Sophie is smug about it.

Nearly every parent, anyway, except for the Courfeyracs, the Prouvaires, and the Enjolrases — the first two sets of parents are well-deservedly proud of their sons, and so is Maryse. Sebastien, on the other hand, is a douchebag who doesn’t deserve Adrien Enjolras as his son. The physical abuse he’s doled out on the boy alone is enough to land him in jail; despite the group’s best efforts, however, he still walks the earth as a free man. She remembers a conversation that she’d had with Luc about a year ago.

 

_“Abusive asshole. Adrien is already older than 18 and yet the bastard still has as firm a hold over him as he did when Adrien was young. And the way Sebastien acts towards Maryse — she deserves better. They both do.”_

_“Mom, don’t talk like that,” Luc gently admonished. With a sigh and a world-weary look behind his spectacles, he admitted, “Sebastien is the biggest jerk I’ve ever known. I just wish he wouldn’t treat Enjolras like that. I see it every day, Mom — Enjolras suffered for it when he was still under Sebastien’s roof, and he suffers for it still when Sebastien calls him, when he abuses Maryse, and when there is any shred of a reminder of the man who’s supposed to be a real father. Enjolras is one of the best people I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing, and yet he’s treated like trash by his own father.”_

_“One day Sebastien will get what’s coming to him,” Sophie replied. “His kind always do.”_

_“That day might be a little too long in coming,” Luc said dryly._

 

It’s a fifteen-minute drive home, and Sophie hums along to the Beatles CD in her player as she drives. She likes driving at night — it’s bright enough with the streetlamps that she can feel safe, there aren’t that many cars on the road, and it’s calming to her. Vincent and Luc always fret about her driving alone, but she likes it, and her phone is fully charged in case of an emergency.

None has ever occurred. This area of Westchester is one of the safest in New York. Sebastien Enjolras is the biggest nightmare to manifest itself in these parts, and the only bogeyman who haunts the streets.

Pressing the accelerator down so that she’s driving 5 over the speed limit, Sophie maneuvers the winding canyon road with ease. She loves being in control of the car, deftly taking each turn and curve with the speed and power that the Audi affords her. The car is six years old, and she could well afford another one, but throwing away money on a brand-new automobile when she already has a fully functional vehicle is the epitome of unnecessary wastage. Besides, she takes good care of the car that it still looks like it could be a year old, barely off the manufacturing line.

Her thoughts come to a screeching halt when something crashes into the back of her car, throwing her sharply forward. If she hadn’t been wearing her seatbelt, she’d have gone straight through the windshield. A gasp makes it past her lips before all the air gets knocked out of her, and she lurches forward, instinctively smashing her foot down on the gas pedal. The car leaps forward with a tortured shriek of mangled metal, and she manages to pull forward.

For the moment.

The vehicle behind her smashes into her back bumper again, tearing it away from the car. She can hear it clattering on the road. The glass of the back windshield shatters, sending deadly projectiles flying in all directions, and she ducks her face into the crook of her arm. Blindingly white headlights are turned on to their brightest so that when she looks in the rearview mirror, all she can see are the thousand coruscating circles of black that cloud her vision. A detached part of her realizes that she’s screaming, but nothing else registers as her car gets hit a third time and sent into a fishtailing spin.

Everything happens nearly instantaneously. The front of her car plows through the guardrail like it’s made of paper, and starts to tear down the hill, snapping branches and leaves from the undergrowth. It’s a short hill — Devin hiked it last month on a date, and he said it wasn’t much of a challenge for him — and Sophie comes to a gradual stop. The car is budged up against the stout trunk of a heavy oak at a tilted angle, and from where Sophie is, she has enough light from the streetlamps up above and her own broken headlights to see the canyon road.

A massively built man with bulk more muscle than fat is staring down at her, his face and front completely in shadow. The white headlights from the Hummer behind him keep him silhouetted, but Sophie can’t see his features or any other identifying mark. Dazedly she realizes that her temple is bleeding, warm liquid dripping onto her shoulder, and a tree branch has stabbed right through the front windshield and impaled the passenger seat headrest. Another foot more to the left and she would be dead.

The man doesn’t say anything; doesn’t do anything but stand and watch her for roughly half a minute. Then he turns around and walks off at a leisurely pace. The white headlights dim themselves and shift direction as the Hummer takes off down the road.

Her breathing is so ragged that it feels like every inhalation is threatening to pull out her lungs. Sophie wheezes as she reaches for her phone, only to find that it’s missing from her purse. The contents of her bag are tossed everywhere about the car, and the blood that gets in her eyes blinds her from being able to locate the phone.

 _Vincent,_ she thinks.  _Luc. Help me._

And then everything goes black. 


	21. Bad News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ferre, what happened?” 
> 
> “Mom’s in Northern Westchester Hospital. It was a car accident.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the short-ish chapters. I'm looking to write longer ones, but I've been sorely out of practice, so they come in drabbles almost. 
> 
> Kudos and/or comments are much appreciated. Thank you for your support. 
> 
> Happy Fourth of July to America!

“The bridesmaids’ dresses have been ordered for Zelma, Cosette, Celine, Chetta, and Victoire,” Eponine says, poking a pencil at the calendar that Combeferre has made for their upcoming nuptials. “The groomsmen tuxes are also en route. Your mom’s dress is already in her possession. That means the bridal party stuff is right on schedule.”

“The venue decor needs to be handled,” Combeferre points out. “What did the planner say?”

“Nicolette says that she will get her team to do it,” Eponine answers.

“Awesome,” Combeferre says, pushing his glasses up his nose. He’s wearing a blue-and-white argyle sweater vest over a blue dress shirt, and Eponine smiles just looking at him. Back in her Montparnasse days, she never thought she’d be attracted to someone like Combeferre. Growing up, she’s only ever wanted the bad boy package — piercings, tattoos, leather, motorcycles, nightclub visits, the whole shebang. Parnasse is a jerkhole sometimes, and tends to treat the people around him the same way. When she had her Marius phase, she was smitten, but part of her knew it wasn’t going to last. Marius is endearing and sweet, but he lacks Combeferre’s pragmatism and tact.

Now there isn’t a day that goes by when Eponine can stop thinking of how hot Combeferre looks in his Brooks Brothers ensembles and glasses. Even the damn lab coat he wears at his internship and work makes her blood heat in the best way possible. More than his nerdy-yet-sexy looks, though, is the way he treats her like a queen. He’s got a wisdom about him that belies his years, and he’s always so kind to everyone he meets. She’s never met anyone, ever, who’s as considerate and thoughtful and pragmatic as he is, and modest about it. He’s never lost his temper unless it’s for a good cause — read: Les Amis being in trouble or danger — and Eponine certainly doesn’t miss Montparnasse’s profanity-riddled rages.

Combeferre smiles at her, and Eponine realizes that she’s been staring at him with a loopy grin on her face. She blushes slightly as he bends down — damn, she loves his height — and brushes her cheek with his lips. He’s about to say something, but the sound of his cell phone ringing beats him to the punch.

“Who is it?” Eponine asks, when he retrieves his phone from his pocket.

“I don’t know,” Combeferre says, looking puzzled. “It’s kind of late. New York number, though.” He puts the phone to his ear, and Eponine circles the date on the calendar when the flowers should come in from the out-of-state florist. If they put the flowers in one of the Combeferres’ walk-in fridges, the blooms should keep until two days later when the actual wedding takes place.

“Hello? Hey, Dad. What’s —”

The blood drains out of Combeferre’s face so dramatically that it goes from his normal skin color to absolute white. He takes a step backward, leaning against the counter, his free hand barely catching the countertop in time so he doesn’t fall flat on his butt. Eponine’s heart jumps up into her mouth, and she rushes forward, sliding her arm around his waist and taking some of his weight off so that he can remain upright. His hand closes over hers in a death grip.

“Where’s Mom now? Tell me the truth. Is — is she —”

Whoever is on the other end of the line must have been reassuring, because Combeferre nods and blows out a breath. He’s still pale as a sheet, and Eponine shifts from one foot to the other as she grimly summons patience. Combeferre does not need her barking at him right now.

“Give me half an hour. Love you, Dad.”

Combeferre hangs up so quickly that he drops his phone on the floor. Muttering a curse, he bends over and shoves it in his pocket while Eponine lets go of him. He stays on his knees for a few more seconds, closing his eyes and breathing in and out as if he’s in a marathon and he can’t get enough air.

“Ferre, what happened?”

“Mom’s in Northern Westchester Hospital. It was a car accident.” His voice is clinically detached, but when he crosses the room to the foyer and grabs his keys from the bowl there, he knocks the bowl over and it bounces on the floor. His keys slide under the sideboard and he snaps another curse out from between gritted teeth.

“Ferre. Hold up.”

Combeferre freezes in his tracks, hunching his shoulders so much that Eponine can practically feel the tension radiating off from him. She quickly walks over and ducks under the cupboard to snatch the keys up. Gently, she takes his hands in hers, and isn’t surprised in the least bit to see that his fingers are shaking. His deep brown eyes are filled with a bone-deep fear, a worry that’s so personal it strikes her to the heart.

“I’m coming with you.”

“It’s eleven at night. Gavroche has school tomorrow. I can’t —”

“I’ll ask R to come help take care of him. I’m not letting you drive by yourself. My mother-in-law is in the hospital. The last thing I want to do is end up with my fiance in a car accident, too.”

Combeferre raises her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles. He doesn’t say anything, but his expression speaks volumes.


	22. Catch 22, Take Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have too much faith in me.” 
> 
> Grantaire turns from where he’s got his hand already on the doorknob and smiles at Montparnasse. “I think you just don’t have enough faith in yourself, so the people around you will keep faith instead for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, I know. I'm trying to write longer chapters but this just had to be a standalone chapter on its own. 
> 
> Thank you for all those wonderful people who kudos-ed and especially commented! Comments drive me to write more haha. How can I not, when all you amazing, kind, sweet people are so good to me?

Montparnasse tosses on his bed, the sheets twisted around his body and practically strangling them. He can’t sleep. His mind is overflowing with thoughts and memories that prick at him like knives.

Gueulemer’s report. _“I just ran Sophie Combeferre off the road an hour ago, boss. Alive, but hospitalized.”_

Eponine’s voice sounds in Montparnasse’s head, and Gavroche’s cherubic face swims in front of his mind’s eye.

_“Parnasse, I’m a Thenardier. I’m the daughter of a wolf; I have the spine and the steel that my parents ran out of long ago. Do not fuck with me. You stay away from me and my own, and I stay away from you and yours.”_

Maryse’s smiling face and tender eyes join the mix. _“Edouard, thank you.”_

As if his subconscious wants to torment him more, Montparnasse is chagrined to find Grantaire’s conversation rehashing itself in his dreamscape.

 

_“Parnasse, I won’t take up too much of your time.”_

_“You already are, R. Sit down already; I don’t want to have to stand up.”_

_“Fine, lazy.” Grantaire’s smile belies the mock insult. “Look, there’s someone after my friends and I. Crazy shit has happened — my sister and Ep’s got stalked; Cosette’s dad, Chetta, and Gavroche, too. Someone messed with Feuilly’s career. Jehan got buried alive; Marius got shot. Bossuet just got sent a letter bomb.”_

_“The baldie? An actual bomb?”_

_“Yeah. I know you’ve never met my friends and you don’t give two shits about them, but we need help. We don’t know what’s going on. These aren’t coincidences, but we can’t string them together, and we don’t know why or what these people want.”_

_“What are you even thinking that I can do, R?”_

_“Look, I’m not stupid. I know you’re not exactly on the right side of things. Correction: the legal side of things. Right and wrong don’t figure into it. If you or your bros hear anything at all — anything about what’s going on that could give us a clue into this whole situation — would you please let me or Ep know? Please?”_

_“I’ll keep an ear out.”_

_Grantaire’s face is earnestly sincere, and Montparnasse wants to lunge across the room and kiss him. He clenches his toes inside his shoes and forces the urge back down._

_“Thank you, Parnasse. If there’s anyone who can shed some light onto this, you can.”_

_Montparnasse wants to laugh away the compliment, give some flippant remark in return, anything to dispense the warm feeling spreading through his chest. Instead, he blurts, “You have too much faith in me.”_

_Grantaire turns from where he’s got his hand already on the doorknob and smiles at Montparnasse — wide and beautiful and genuine — causing the breath in his throat to halt. “Sure, Parnasse. Whatever. I think you just don’t have enough faith in yourself, so the people around you will keep faith instead for you.”_

_The door closes behind Grantaire, and Montparnasse stands stationary, listening to the other man’s footsteps trot down the stairs. It’s nine hours past his visit when Montparnasse realizes that R’s abandoned green scarf is still lying unfurled on the couch._

 

Now Montparnasse rolls over onto his back and groans at the sunlight that shoots through the cracks in the blinds. He grabs the scarf from where it’s neatly folded on his nightstand and presses it to his nose. The now-familiar scent of oil paint and vanilla floods his nose — along with a strange mixture of sandalwood and orange. The latter smell is faint, though, so Montparnasse doesn’t toss the scarf away instantly. He just wads it into a ball and pillows his head onto the scarf.

He’ll return it to R later. Right now, he’s content to just lie back and dream of a fantasy that will never be. 


	23. Before Us Great Death Stands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She doesn’t have long. You came at the right time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from the poem “Death” by Rainer Maria Rilke. 
> 
> I apologize for not updating as regularly as I wanted. Have a long chapter on me. Well, longer than the recent usual, anyway. 
> 
> And it's okay to cry. I did, a little. It was kind of hard to write. Character death warning.

It’s only after Sophie Combeferre has stabilized and Combeferre has dropped off to sleep with his head in Eponine’s lap that Enjolras stands up from his chair and stretches numb legs.

“I’m headed out for a minute,” he says to Eponine, who only nods in response. She looks about as exhausted as he himself feels. It’s been a long night, and none of them have managed to get a wink of sleep. Now she leans her head back against the wall, her fingers entangled in Combeferre’s hair.

By now the others are aware of what’s going on, but Enjolras expressly forbade Courfeyrac from coming down — Jehan still gets nightmares when he’s left alone in bed. Besides, keeping a constant vigil isn’t anyone else’s responsibility. Combeferre’s mother is in the hands of the best doctors in Westchester, and her injuries aren’t too serious. She’ll recover.

He’s careful going down the corridor leading to his mother’s hospital room. Agathe has updated him about how there’s usually a guard placed outside by his father, and that the nurses and doctors are notified to keep Enjolras out. The lateness of the hour — it’s three in the morning — also wouldn’t help Enjolras’ case should someone decide to call the police.

When he gets there, though, the guard is slumped in his chair with his pretentious cap laid over his eyes. No hospital personnel is around; however, a young man in scrubs walks out of the room right as Enjolras is about to lay his hand on the doorknob.

“May I help you?”

Enjolras’ heart jumps into his throat. Here it is; he’s about to get evicted from the premises just because he wants to see his _mother_.

“I just wanted to see my mother,” he manages around the lump constricting his windpipe. The farce is up. There’s no way this guy can’t recognize that he’s Maryse’s son.

Contempt dances in the young man’s eyes. He’s got to be one of the nurses, but Enjolras doesn’t recognize him. He’s darkly handsome, and his voice is like honey. Even though it’s the witching hour, he seems strangely invigorated. A manila folder is clasped loosely beneath his arm, and Enjolras spots a watermarked address to Hathaway & Sage. The name sounds familiar, but he can’t place it.

“Don’t you know you’re not allowed around here? Around _her?”_

“Please,” Enjolras says, and even he can hear the desperation in his voice. “I know my father doesn’t want me here, but I want to see her. She’s my _mother.”_ Despite his best resolve, his voice cracks, and he ducks his head, staring at his shoes, biting his lip in an effort to keep the tears springing to his eyes. He’s not entirely successful.

There’s a long pause.

“Fine,” the young man says. He doesn’t sound happy, but there’s a touch of compassion in his voice. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but she doesn’t have long. You came at the right time. The guard will wake up soon, so I’d hurry, if I were you.”

Enjolras raises his head, and angrily fists away the single tear that’s slid down his cheek. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” the nurse says, already walking down the corridor. “Go in. You’re wasting time.”

 

Montparnasse heaves a sigh of relief as Adrien Enjolras vanishes into Maryse’s hospital room. He congratulates himself on his good ideas. Somehow, he’d gotten the notion that dressing up as one of the hospital staff would help him get in and out more easily, and he’s been proven right. Sebastien’s guard didn’t even realize he was facing Montparnasse until it was too late — the very man whom the feckless moron had been hired to keep out. Sure, Sebastien probably employed the fool to keep his son out, too, but that wouldn’t have been too much of a challenge. It’ll take him another fifteen to twenty minutes to wake up.

His orders from Sebastien are to harry Les Amis, but Montparnasse wishes he could be given the opportunity to strike Adrien Enjolras down. Being able to take out his frustrations on his romantic rival would be so easy — and at the same time, impossibly difficult. He knows how much this wilting flower means to Grantaire. Knowingly bringing pain to both Grantaire and Eponine is beyond even Montparnasse.

Speaking of Eponine, he better be careful when he passes the waiting room. He doesn’t want her to recognize him and wonder about his presence here.

He pats the envelope under his arm. He’s presented Maryse with her dying wish, said his goodbyes, and now he’s about to fulfill the last of his unspoken promise. All he needs to do is take the envelope to her lawyers at Hathaway & Sage, and he won’t owe her anymore in any way.

_Goodbye, Maryse. Pray that I’ll never have to come face to face with your son again. I did this for you and R, not him._

He leaves the hospital for the last time, and doesn’t look back.

 

The guard will wake up soon? Does the man fall asleep at a certain time every night? More importantly, does _Sebastien_ know about it?

Well, Enjolras will benefit from his carelessness. He shuts the door softly behind him and turns around to the bed.

Maryse is a shadow of her former self. She’s worsened since the last time Enjolras saw her a week ago. She’s far too skinny, cheekbones and collarbone protruding. Her stomach is distended under the hospital gown, and her skin is ashen.

_She doesn’t have long. You came at the right time._

He doesn’t want to wake her up. She needs the rest. Enjolras settles into the hard-backed chair next to the bed and gently, very gently, takes his mother’s hand in his. Her fingers are skin laid over bone and nothing else. He remembers these hands lovingly hugging him, patting his cheek and shoulder in encouragement, lifting him up from where he’s fallen. Leading him, guiding him, supporting him every step of the way, all his life.

Her beautiful blonde hair is miraculously still intact. Enjolras has begrudged his own appearance before, angry and upset that he looks like his father. He’s hardly stopped to consider the fact that he resembles his mother just as much as he carries his father’s lineage and appearance. He and Maryse share the same eyes, the same hair, and the same facial structure, even as Sebastien’s DNA has sharpened Enjolras’ good looks.

Maryse is dying, like what the nurse said. His mother is going and leaving him — just like Alain.

Enjolras wonders what it would be like to die. Dying would be the next big adventure — but it could also be a void. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to lose the people he cares about. If there’s a next life, that’d be great, but he doesn’t want heaven if his loved ones are in hell. Grantaire would make a disparaging remark about how the other Amis would be in paradise and he would be in purgatory. Well, bullshit. Enjolras wants to go where Grantaire would go, no matter how eternal a hell it would be. He would like to see his mother again, and his brother, and the others, if there is a next life, if death isn’t the end. Because he has no idea if it’s the end for everyone he loves and holds dear.

He should talk to Jehan about this.

Yes, everyone dies eventually. Everyone leaves this world after making their mark on it. It’s just deathly _unfair_ that good, loving people like his mother are taken far too early while the avaricious, selfish individuals like — well, like his father — live on and continue to hurt and cheat the people around them.

But he’s not ready. He doesn’t want his mother to die. He doesn’t want the only member of his family left who still loves him to leave him. It’s a selfish reason. His mother has always been there for him, and he’s afraid to find out what will happen when she’s gone.

“Adrien?”

His mother is stirring, blue eyes blinking open to see him, and the tender smile that slides onto her lips tugs at Enjolras’ heart. The lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes are deep and tired. She needs rest — lots of it.

“Maman.” He bends his head and presses his lips to her hand.

“Oh, Adrien, I’m so glad to see you.” Her voice is weak, and her eyes shut for a brief second like it’s tiring to keep them open.

“Don’t talk, Maman. It’s all right.”

“Did you see Edouard?”

“The nurse?” Enjolras glances back to the door, but it remains shut. “Yeah, he let me in. I’m surprised. I think Father told the other doctors and nurses to keep me out.”

Maryse chuckles and shakes her head. “That boy. He does whatever he wants.”

“He should watch himself. Father might slap a lawsuit onto his back.”

A light smile touches Maryse’s lips briefly. “Oh, I very much doubt that.” She breaks off, coughing, and every cough shakes her slim frame violently enough that Enjolras’ heart stutters in his chest. Hastily he snatches the cup of water off of the bedside table and offers it to her, but she pushes it away after only a sip. Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras spots Grantaire’s painting on the wall and one of Feuilly’s fans is resting on the bedside table.

“I just want to sleep,” she says in a scarily breathy voice. “I’m tired.”

“Then sleep, Maman.”

“Not yet.” Maryse latches back onto Enjolras’ hand and looks into his eyes with a strength and intensity that surprises him. Even with the medication and the chemotherapy and the pain, he can see the dignity and gregarious light in her that have always defined her life. When she speaks, she almost sounds like her former self, if he were to close his eyes and imagine. “Adrien, sweetheart, I need you to listen carefully to me.”

“I’m listening, Maman.”

“I love you, Adrien. I’ve always loved you. You and Alain have been the light of my life. Your father is a monster, but I’m grateful to him that I had you both. I’ll never regret that, no matter what. I hope you know that I love you.”

“I love you too, Maman.” Enjolras’ voice cracks, and no matter how much he clears his throat, he can’t keep his voice from breaking. “Don’t go. Please.”

“I wish I didn’t have to, darling.” Maryse’s voice softens. “I’m weak, Adrien. I should have done a better job of protecting you and Alain. Keeping you safe. I hope that in time you can forgive me for it.”

“What — what do you mean? You _have_. You’ve done everything you could.”

“Not everything. Not yet.”

He doesn’t understand, and he knows his face shows the confusion he feels. “Maman, what —”

“Keep your friends close, Adrien. They’re your family now.”

He doesn’t understand everything, but he does understand what’s happening. His heart feels like it’s being crushed slowly under a rock that’s pressing down inch by inch, and against his will his face crumples. “Maman, please. Please, please, please. Not you, too.”

“Don’t give in to your father,” Maryse whispers. “Death isn’t the end, Adrien. Losing yourself; losing your path — that’s the end. Sebastien has lost his way. Don’t let him make you lose yours, too.”

Enjolras can’t stop crying. His breath is gone and his chest hurts, and hot wetness keeps streaming down his face. He’s crying so hard he can’t answer, and he can barely hear his mother speaking.

“Adrien. Promise me.”

He can’t make head or tail of what she’s saying, but he knows he has to promise her. Anything at all — anything for his mother. “I promise, Maman.”

“Be strong.” Maryse leans back against the pillows. As her heart rate drops, right before the machines start to blare, she whispers a last phrase that rips out Enjolras’ heart.

He can’t breathe, can’t scream, can’t do anything but stare at his mother’s face. The lines in her face smooth themselves out, and the corners of her lips turn slightly upward. It’s a look of peace, and he can’t comprehend it, the expression is almost _mocking_ , because she’s not there, she’s _gone_ , and she’s _left him._

“No,” he says, and it’s a weak, feeble sound that is practically unintelligible. It comes from his mouth, but he doesn’t know it’s out there until he realizes that he’s saying it over and over again. There’s a bang of something slamming against the wall, and then there are hands on his shoulders, pulling him away, fingers prying his off of his mother’s hand. His grip tightens, and they can’t make him leave, they _can’t_ , because his mother is dead. His mother is _gone_.

“Come on, son. Let go. We need to help her.” The voice is unfamiliar to him. 

Help her? Why? He knows that she’s already gone, that she’s _left him,_ and the knowledge is both impossible to deny and impossible to believe. She wouldn’t leave him, she wouldn’t _go away_ , she just wouldn’t. She’s promised that she’ll always be with him, and he’s made a liar out of her. He fucks everything up, and now she’s _gone._

They’re pulling him off the chair and out of the room, and people are rushing into the room, and he doesn’t want to leave. He wants to go back inside, but the hands holding him back are tight and rough, unwittingly leaving bruises, and he’s crying so hard that he can’t breathe. His knees give way and he drops to the floor, and whoever is holding him lets him go, but bars the doorway so he can’t crawl forward and back into the room.

Everything is cold. He’s freezing, and his ears are ringing. His vision tunnels to a narrow circle, his surroundings going black, and he can’t tell ground from air anymore.

“Enjolras, come on. Enjolras, please. You’re not going to be okay sitting here.”

“Ferre, he’s not —”

 _“I know!_ Damnit, I know. I know. Ep, just call R — just — please, Enjolras, please, listen to me, _look_ at me —”

That’s Combeferre’s voice. Enjolras doesn’t know how he got here. He doesn’t remember why Combeferre is at the hospital to begin with, and he doesn’t care. His chest hurts, he can’t breathe, he can’t do anything but try and catch his breath even as he sobs uselessly. He can’t hold himself up, and he’s just sitting on the floor where they left him. His vision stays in the dark tunnel, and he wants to throw up, but he can’t, because he’s in front of his mother’s room. He doesn’t want to get her room dirty. It’s _her_ room.

_Je t'aime ma petite tête de chou. Je t'aime ma petite tête de chou._

His mother used to say that to him and Alain, all the time. She stopped saying it when he turned twelve. She said it when Alain died.

She just said it to Enjolras, when _she_ died. When she _left him._ For good.

She can’t be dead, she can’t be gone, but she is. He’s going to be sick, he wants to cry, he _is_ crying, and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe. There’s a sick, sour taste in his mouth, and salt on his cheeks, and _he can’t breathe._

His vision goes completely black, and the last thing he remembers is Combeferre and Eponine shouting above him, even as familiar hands grab him before his head slams against the floor.


	24. Tide Turns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The figures are hard proof; the facts undeniable.
> 
> 55 percent. Four percent more than the majority.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for not regularly updating like I promised to. I was going to wait until I'd finished half of my draft for the Big Bang before I completed this, but that isn't fair. I'm going to somehow attempt to co-write the Big Bang AND this fic at the same time. Somehow. 
> 
> Please comment and/or kudo if you can :) the former especially helps motivate me to write more. 
> 
> Thank you for supporting and encouraging me!

Maryse is dead.

Sebastien can’t help feeling torn. He loves his wife, especially when it’s convenient and beneficial to himself and his ends — _loved_ , he reminds himself — until she betrayed him. It’s her fault, and she’s passed her taint down to his bloodline.

But she’s out of the way, now, and he can focus all his energies on Adrien. Maybe it’s not too late to sway the boy over to his side. Family is crucial. Adrien is his true heir, and he needs to have the boy as his instrument. Two Enjolrases will deal head-on with the world, and triumph. He will not let Alain or Maryse ruin what he has wrought.

“Sire?”

Louis is standing in the doorway of Sebastien’s office, interrupting when he knows Sebastien doesn’t want to be disturbed. It’s got to be important, for his right-hand-man to barge in like this. His bodyguard’s face is crinkled in confusion.

“This was only just delivered to the door, sir.”

“USPS or FedEx?”

“Hand-delivered, sire. The messenger took off before Agathe could talk to him.”

Sebastien takes the manila envelope. The watermark of Hathaway & Sage is stamped in the top left-hand corner of the envelope, and it takes him a second to place the name. Jonatan Hathaway and Rimona Sage — Maryse’s close friends and her lawyers — names Sebastien hasn’t heard for decades. They got in a massive fight when he managed to turn the tables on them and take over Digne Enterprises, and he hasn’t spoken to them since then.

“What do the little shits want?” he asked rhetorically, annoyed. “She’s cold on her deathbed; she hasn’t even been put in the ground yet, and they’re circling like vultures. She has nothing left to give or steal. Everything she has is mine, and nothing can change that.”

He rips apart the envelope with his letter opener, revealing several sheets of paper that slide out of the envelope onto his desk. Picking up the first sheet, he reads — and reads it again. Then he goes through all the other sheets of paper. The figures are hard proof; the facts undeniable.

55 percent. Four percent more than the majority.

He picks up the bronze globe paperweight on his desk and spins around to hurl it through the window. The crash of breaking glass doesn’t improve his mood. He grabs a golf iron from the caddy in the corner and smashes it onto his desk, chiseling cracks across the surface of the glass desk protector. Then he sweeps the contents of his desk off the top, sending papers and stationery flying. The obligatory framed family photograph he picks up and flings across the room, where it smashes into the wall next to the door and leaves a dent the size of Sebastien’s fist.

Finally he stops, chest heaving, his mind racing as he walks back to his leather desk chair and takes a seat. Louis takes a step towards the broken items, but Sebastien waves him off sharply, thinking hard.

All is not lost. He can still regain footing; he can still win this game. He just needs to tread carefully and manipulate well. Adrien’s always been easy to control. Clearly, Maryse has been smarter than Sebastien’s figured her for — but he’s still smarter than her. He just needs to prove it. Once this is all sorted out, he’s going to go and dance on the bitch’s grave.

“Where’s Adrien now?”

Louis watches him warily. “Still at the hospital, sire.”

“Get the car. We’re going to go play the bereaved husband/devastated father card.” 


	25. Devastating Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Monsieur Enjolras, please, you can’t disturb him right now. He’s —” 
> 
> “Where is he?” 
> 
> Grantaire’s rising from his chair, taking Enjolras’ hand as he does, when Sebastien Enjolras bursts into the room with Courfeyrac and Jehan Prouvaire at his heels. 
> 
> “I want to talk to Adrien,” Sebastien says. “Alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I missed the mark on the Big Bang, so I'll be focusing on this story until it's done before shifting to that. Hopefully I haven't driven anybody away with my inconsistent updates. Sorry about that. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Any comments and/or kudos are much appreciated. 
> 
> P.S. warning for heavy abuse themes in this chapter. I'm realizing that I should put more warnings for things, so.

His mind is a jumbled mess of images and sounds and memories. He knows he’s asleep, or at least somewhat down under, but he can’t wake up.

 

_“I’m on my way,” Grantaire says, and hangs up. He turns to Enjolras. “It’s Ep. I need to go over there to look after Gav. She and Ferre are on their way to Westchester.”_

_Enjolras shoves down the wave of panic —_ if anything has happened to Mother, I would have been one of the first few to know, right? _— and his face must show how he feels, because Grantaire moves forward and presses Enjolras into his arms. After a couple of seconds, he brushes his lips against Enjolras’ forehead and says, “It’s Combeferre’s mom.”_

Sophie Combeferre. _As goodly and kind a woman as any he’s ever met, and one of the women in Enjolras’ life who treats him like a blood son._

_“She’s in the hospital,” Grantaire continues. He can probably tell that Enjolras has gone stiff as a board. “They’re headed over there now. You should go, too. Ferre needs you. He has Ep, sure, but he needs you, too. And it might be nice for you to see your mom while you’re at it.”_

_Enjolras is of the same opinion, but he pauses. He and Grantaire have only just made up. He doesn’t want Grantaire to feel like he’s playing second fiddle to Combeferre, even though at this point Enjolras is aching to run out the door and make it on the subway line that arrives soonest._

_Combeferre needs him. But so does Grantaire._

_“I know,” Grantaire says softly, like he’s read Enjolras’ mind. “But this is important. We’ll have time later, but right now, he needs you.” He presses a kiss to Enjolras’ forehead. “I love you. Now go.”_

 

_“Ferre?”_

_Combeferre looks like he hasn’t slept a wink. The empty chair on his right is occupied by Eponine’s scarf and pocketbook — she must have gone to either the cafeteria or the restroom for the moment — and there’s a crumpled coffee cup on the left chair. He’s got his head in his hands, and he only lifts his eyes when Enjolras stops in front of him._

_“Enjolras? What are you doing here?”_

_The whole picture is wrong. Combeferre has always been the steady rock of the group, the man with a plan, the very image of composure, the guide. Enjolras and the others have always been able to depend on him, no matter what. Nothing has ever been able to faze Combeferre except for the wellbeing of his friends and family. With the occasional exception of Enjolras, no one has ever given Combeferre cause to worry or despair, and it’s a scary sight._

_“I came on the subway,” Enjolras blurts, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind._

_“The subway? At this time of night? Enjolras, it’s not safe.”_

_“I was fine,” Enjolras assures him, and he’s telling the honest truth. Months ago, he would have easily been mugged, his fine clothes and rich-boy-demeanor appealing to the criminal element of the lower class. However, being cut off from his father’s wealth has turned him into someone completely different. His coat is still well-cut, but his jeans and T-shirt show signs of wear, and his once-styled curly hair has recently been hacked off to the nape of his neck by Cosette. Lean eating has reduced his frame despite everyone else’s attempts to fatten him up. In addition, knife-fighting lessons with Bahorel have also provided him with a defensive edge, much to Grantaire’s relief._

_Combeferre doesn’t seem to have the energy to contest Enjolras’ words. Instead, he drops his head back down into his hands. Enjolras picks up the discarded cup and tosses it into the garbage can, before taking the now-empty seat on Combeferre’s left. He doesn’t bother with useless words, or questions about what is going on — he can always ask Eponine later, and his own curiosity is in second place to Combeferre’s welfare. Now he simply lets Combeferre lean against him, while he uses his right hand to rub out the tight knots that have accumulated in Combeferre’s shoulders._

_“It was a hit and run,” Combeferre finally says. His voice is heavy with exhaustion and worry. “She told them some things when she woke up, right before she went back under and they took her into surgery. She says that the guy deliberately hit her and watched her car roll before he drove off. The local police department got a letter from Patron-Minette claiming responsibility. No reasons were cited.”_

Patron-Minette! _Enjolras sits bolt upright, shocked despite his resolve to keep it to himself. Combeferre’s updated him in the past about the grisly murder of the man who attempted to kill Courfeyrac and Jehan both, and who wounded Marius. He’s also kept abreast of the news regarding the infamous gang and their methods of working. They mostly focus their energy and resources into robbery, fraud, and extortion, but murder happens to be their specialty._

_“No,” he breathes. “That’s impossible.”_

_“Is it?”_

 

The scene shifts.

 

_“You’re such a disappointment to me. Alain was lucky to be born, but you were born lucky. Now you’ve gone and fucked it up. I hope you’re happy.”_

_The sharp crack is followed by the burning-hot pain that blossoms in his face. He catches himself, but his shoulder still slams against the doorframe. His father looms over him like a specter, and grabs him by the collar, pulling him in the direction of his bedroom like a dog._

_“To make_ me _happy, however, you’re going to have to put in some hard work. I hope you’re ready for it.”_

_He tries to dig in his heels, but his father smacks him again in the same spot. The pain distracts him and he lets go of the carpet._

_“If you think the last time was bad, you little brat, you’re in for a surprise this time around.”_

 

_He’s squatting with his arms cinched around his legs which are pulled up to his chest. No matter how tightly he holds himself, his hands and arms tremble all the more. Tears are seeping from his eyes, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from sobbing out loud._

_“Adrien?”_

_Alain’s crawling under his bed to reach him, moving with difficulty through the small space to get to the hidey hole that Enjolras has blocked off by his bed. It’s a three-by-three foot space that he’s stuck a cardboard sheet over as a door, and Alain can’t fit through it. He can barely fit through it by himself._

_“Adrien, come on out, buddy.”_

_“No.” He sobs the word rather than says it. His chest hurts. “No, I don’t want to, you can’t make me,_ please _, Alain —”_

_“We need to talk to you, kiddo.”_

_“Who’s we?”_

_“Mom. Me. Maybe Dad…?”_

_His breathing hitches and he scoots as far back as he can, pressing his body against the wall, lifting his fists to press them against his eyes. He’s not a baby. He shouldn’t cry, and he won’t cry in front of his father. But he won’t go. He doesn’t want to be around his father anymore. He doesn’t want to see or talk to or even_ breathe _around him. All he can feel are those hands, and he doesn’t want to feel them anymore._

_“Okay, not Dad,” Alain amends. “Please, Adrien.”_

_“No.” He sniffles it because he can’t say it straight like the way his father wants him to._

_“Okay, then we’ll just talk here,” Alain says amiably. “You didn’t do well in school this semester. Dad showed us your report card. How come? Was it really hard?”_

_His bottom hurts too much from where his father took the belt to him. All C’s. He usually gets straight A’s, and his father is angry at him for it. He’s angry at Enjolras for a lot of things. “No.”_

_“Then what, buddy? Did you not like the teachers or the other kids? Were they mean to you? What about Luc and Henri?”_

_Combeferre and Courfeyrac don’t know what’s happening with him. He doesn’t want to tell them. He’d be too ashamed, although he’s not sure why. They haven’t ever been mean to him like the other kids. “Yeah, they’ve been mean, but I don’t mind. Luc and Henri have always been nice.”_

_“You’re smart, Adrien, and you work hard. You know this stuff. So what’s going on? You don’t sleep well at night; you’re constantly angry and grumpy. You don’t read or hang out with Luc and Henri anymore. You don’t do well at school now, and you always have. What’s wrong, Adrien? Why don’t you want me to help you? We’ve always been close. I love you, Adrien. Let me help you. Please, little brother. Please.”_

_Alain’s voice is shaking like he’s going to cry, and Adrien doesn’t want him to cry. But he’s scared. He was told not to tell, and he doesn’t want to hurt again if he does tell._

_“I won’t let anything bad happen to you, Adrien,” Alain promises. “Please. Tell me.”_

_He’s crying again, and he wipes the tears away. He’s still shaking, but he forces himself to talk. “You promise?”_

_“I promise, kiddo. I love you.”_

_Maybe it’s true. Maybe Alain can keep anything bad from happening. Maybe Mother will, too._

_“It’s Father. I just — it’s a long story. Please don’t be mad at me.” He forces himself to meet Alain’s eyes, even though his vision is blurry and he wants to duck his head. Watches as Alain’s face freezes into a rictus of shock, and repeats himself, even though he doesn’t want to babble._

_“It’s Father. Alain, please, don’t tell anybody, he’ll kill me, it was my fault —”_

 

Enjolras comes awake with a start, and he’s startled to find tears in his eyes. He fights to hold onto the last vestiges of the dreams, but they dissipate from his mental grasp before he even sits up.

He’s lying on a hospital bed, and he’s wearing one of those drab gowns. His mouth is dry and cottony, and he feels like he’s been sleeping for a very long time. Even as he blinks away the tears from his swollen eyes, he can feel that his cheeks are blotchy and his head hurts.

“Apollo?”

It’s surprisingly difficult for Enjolras to turn his head and look to his right. Grantaire’s sitting there on a hard plastic chair, holding onto one of his hands, and he’s a sight for sore eyes. His black curls are tousled, and he’s still wearing the sweater and jeans from the last time Enjolras saw him.

“What’s going on?” His voice is a rusty croak.

Grantaire lifts a plastic cup from the nightstand and gently pushes the end of a straw into Enjolras’ mouth. “Drink.” He waits until Enjolras complies before continuing. “You’re in Northern Westchester Hospital. They had to sedate you and keep you overnight after — well, I don’t know how much you remember, to be honest. You got a little crazy after your mother…”

He trails off, and Enjolras’ heart turns to ice inside his chest when the events of what must have been the previous night slam back into his mind with the force of a battering ram. He pulls his hand out of Grantaire’s and thrusts it under his blanket, staring up at the ceiling and trying his hardest not to blink too much. He’s not successful.

“Where’s Ferre?”

“He’s here at the hospital, but up a couple of floors. His mom is doing fine. They’re worried about you. _We’re_ worried about you.”

“We?” Enjolras repeats.

“Everyone,” Grantaire says patiently. “Courf and Jehan are waiting out there. Ep and Ferre are with his mother, but they all want to see you. They’ll be really glad to know you’re awake.”

Enjolras doesn’t say anything. For someone who is as well-versed as he is, he knows his silence is unnatural, but it’s a blanket he’s wrapping around himself in denial of the awful reality that his mother is _gone_.

“Apollo, love, please look at me.”

He doesn’t want to, but he can never deny Grantaire anything, so he turns newly wet eyes in his boyfriend’s direction. He chokes back a sob when Grantaire reaches out and strokes his hair off of his forehead before leaning over and brushing his lips against the skin of Enjolras’ temple.

“It’ll be okay, Apollo. I promise.”

“You can’t know that,” Enjolras croaks.

“But I know _you.”_

Hurried footsteps sound outside the door, and the sounds of raised voices come to Enjolras’ ears. The first one is familiar and welcoming, although he can’t place it right now; the other sends a snake of dread crawling up through his stomach.

“Monsieur Enjolras, please, you can’t disturb him right now. He’s —”

“Where is he?”

Grantaire’s rising from his chair, taking Enjolras’ hand as he does, when Sebastien Enjolras bursts into the room with Courfeyrac and Jehan Prouvaire at his heels. The bodyguard — Louis — trails behind, looking bored but for his body language; he’s got his hands behind his back, and he’s vibrating with tension. The holstered gun and nightstick at his belt are all too conspicuous.

“I want to talk to Adrien,” Sebastien says. “Alone.” 


	26. Coup D'Etat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This isn’t over,” Sebastien blusters. 
> 
> “It is over, and it has been over before you even responded,” Combeferre retorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sad feels. I know, I'm bad. But I hope you all enjoy Combeferre's badassery!
> 
> Thank you for reading and kudos/commenting!

“No fucking way,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras looks from him to his father, looks at Courfeyrac and Jehan, and then back to his father again. His friends look nothing short of furious, even tiny, pacifist Jehan, while Sebastien is the epitome of calm. His shoulders are relaxed, and there’s the hint of a tiny smile hovering at the corners of his lips.

That’s good. That’s good, right? If his father is calm, that means he isn’t mad, and the chances of him hitting Enjolras are slim.

“Your friends can go out in the hall,” Sebastien says, and his voice is like honey. “Adrien, this is urgent. It concerns your mother.”

 _Maman_. The memory of blue eyes and blond hair and warm arms sinks back into Enjolras’ memory, and he can feel himself wavering. He looks back at his friends, seeing the worry knit into the angry V of Courfeyrac’s eyebrows, the roundness of Grantaire’s wide blue eyes, and the way Jehan worries his bottom lip.

“This is a family affair, Adrien,” his father continues soothingly. “It’s not that I don’t want your friends around, but this is for blood and blood alone.”

It won’t hurt to talk to him, right? They’re in public, and it concerns his mother. He forces himself to nod, and Sebastien’s smile spreads even wider.

Courfeyrac begins to argue, but Grantaire takes him by the arm and pushes him out the door. “We’ll be just outside if you need us,” he tells Enjolras, and the threat in his voice is obvious. He wants Sebastien to know that they won’t be too far away.

Sebastien only sneers. The moment the door shuts, he pulls out a folder from his briefcase.

“What’s that?” Enjolras asks.

“Your mother’s will, and a power of attorney, among other things,” Sebastien says smoothly. He takes out a pen from his jacket. “Sign this, Adrien.”

“Mother didn’t have a will,” Enjolras says faintly. “She didn’t have anything left in her name, right?”

“She shouldn’t have,” Sebastien replies. “I’ve marked the places for you to sign, Adrien.”

“What am I signing?” Enjolras pushes himself up to sit further upright on the bed, despite the way his head protests at the movement. With a dexterity he doesn’t know he possesses, he snatches the papers that his father is holding out and scans them rapidly with as much concentration as he can muster. He has to reread them again to fully understand what’s going on, and by the time he’s done, his head is spinning even more.

“I thought you controlled Digne Enterprises,” he says stupidly, unsure that he’s saying the words aloud until he hears them with his own ears.

Sebastien takes a deep breath and smiles, but there’s a muscle popping in his cheek that invalidates the pleasant expression. “I did. And I will again. Adrien, just sign the forms and I’ll leave to let you get your rest.”

“I _own_ Digne Enterprises? And you want me to completely give that up to you?”

Sebastien’s mask slips off completely. He slams his fist down onto the table and latches onto Enjolras’ shoulder, shaking him hard. Enjolras jumps and tries instinctively to pull away, crumpling the papers in his fist.

“Sign the papers, Adrien, or so help me, I’ll —”

“You’ll what?” A new voice interrupts.

Sebastien releases his hold on Enjolras as if he’s been burned, both of them turning to the doorway to see Combeferre with his hand on the doorknob. He shoves his way past Louis — the bodyguard not offering much assistance with a newly arrived Bahorel gripping him by the lapels — and walks into the room, flanked by Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Grantaire.

“This is none of your affair,” Sebastien snaps.

“This is completely my affair,” Combeferre says icily. “You’ve already disowned him in all but name, Monsieur. It is illegal for you to coerce him while he is under the influence of sedative drugs and without his attorney present, and you know it. Step down, or we’ll call security this instant.”

“You have no right. I am his father, and he has no attorney to speak of, no assets, _nothing_ —”

“Henri de Courfeyrac has passed the bar, and will start practicing in a week. He has been noted long ago as Adrien Enjolras’ attorney, especially because we refuse to place him on your retainer to begin with. Monsieur Sebastien, you relinquished your right to be his father with every word and act of abuse you gave him, your own _son_. Moreover, he’s no longer eighteen, and as such, he is legally an adult.” Combeferre gives Sebastien an even look from behind his spectacles, and the latter actually takes several steps back, away from the bed. “You have four witnesses — excluding your bodyguard, who I realize has a misplaced sense of loyalty to a man who deserves none — who can claim truthfully that you have attempted assault on Adrien Enjolras, and that you have already had a history of battery on the same individual.”

“This isn’t over,” Sebastien blusters.

“It is over, and it has been over before you even responded,” Combeferre retorts. “Leave, Monsieur. The next time I have to say it again, it won’t be a request.”

Sebastien brushes past Bahorel — who, of course, pushes him right back with his broad shoulder, and nearly knocks Sebastien over — and stomps out of the room. Louis then shakes Bahorel off and rushes after his boss.

“Lightweights,” Bahorel remarks, shaking his head in a mockingly rueful manner.

Grantaire leans over the bed, smoothing the papers out and removing them from Enjolras’ grasp. He passes them to Courfeyrac, who glances through the sheaf with a frown on his face. Jehan presses himself over Courfeyrac’s shoulder to read them with him.

“Are you okay?” Combeferre asks.

Enjolras shakes his head. He can’t think about what has just happened. He can’t think about what happened last night. If he does, he’s going to break into a million tiny little pieces.

“I want to go home,” he says in a small voice. “Please.” 


	27. Legal Jargon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re in for some rough roads,” Courfeyrac says grimly. “I hate to be the naysayer here, but I think at this point Sebastien has only two options — court Enjolras, or crush him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your sweet comments and kudos! Seriously, they make my day. I can't tell you about how much more I feel inspired and motivated when someone leaves a really adorable/kind comment :) I love you all.

It takes them all of an hour to get Enjolras checked out of the hospital. Combeferre and Eponine are going to stay with his mother for the time being, but she’s stabilized enough that Combeferre promises they’ll be back after she’s discharged. It’ll take a couple of days, tops.

“I can’t accuse Sebastien of anything,” he tells Grantaire _sotto voce._ “But let’s just say that after what’s happened here, I have no wish to leave my mother here unattended.”

“Agreed,” Grantaire says.

Courfeyrac brings the car around, and Jehan helps Grantaire to situate Enjolras inside the passenger seat before he opts to sit with Bahorel in his truck so that the latter doesn’t have to drive alone. As the big black pickup follows idly behind Courfeyrac’s car, Grantaire makes a mental note to thank Bahorel in private. It’s obvious much of Sebastien’s wind went out of his sails with Bahorel taking Louis out of the equation. Without their friend, they would have been pretty much at a loss to get Sebastien to back off.

Enjolras doesn’t say anything at all. The instant Grantaire sits next to him in the backseat, Enjolras curls himself into Grantaire’s side and goes to sleep. He usually likes to stay awake and sink into his thoughts, but Grantaire really can’t blame his boyfriend for wanting an escape, even if it’s only for about an hour. If Sebastien was _his_ father, Grantaire probably would have drunk himself to death a long time ago.

He reaches over for the slim file folder that he left on the seat next to him, careful not to disturb the arm that’s tucked around Enjolras’ shoulders. He doesn’t know much legal jargon, but he’s curious about what Sebastien was trying to get Enjolras to sign. The asshole has already disowned Enjolras. He shouldn’t have anything else to say, much less make Enjolras do.

“It’s a power of attorney and Maryse’s will,” Courfeyrac says, startling Grantaire. Clearly his friend has been peeking in the rearview mirror. “A couple other things, including the statements of one company called Digne Enterprises and the review of a full company audit.”

“An audit?”

“An external, year-end audit conducted by PWC. Not Sebastien’s parent corporation. This is serious business.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at the will, R.”

Grantaire swiftly scans the piece of paper, headed by a fancy watermarked logo. The blue ink of the signature tells him that it’s one of the original copies, signed in Maryse’s hand. She’s left a steady annual income to Agathe Simplice for the rest of her days, and bequeathed complete and total control of her 55 percent majority in Digne Enterprises to… to…

“I thought she lost her company,” he says numbly.

“My parents said she gave all her assets to Sebastien,” Courfeyrac agrees. “I don’t know how she got control again, but Sebastien now only owns 25 percent, with the remaining 20 percent belonging to the other shareholders. He must have wanted Enjolras to give the company back to him through signing the power of attorney.”

Grantaire’s head is spinning. “Maryse said that Digne Enterprises is a powerhouse. One of Berkshire Hathaway’s strongest rivals…”

“Check out the bank statements. Forget the net worth of the company; the dividends alone will make your eyes bug out.”

The amount of dividends that Digne Enterprises pays out yearly to their shareholders is a six-to-seven-figure sum, never mind the nine-figure number that the company is worth. Grantaire stares at the balance sheet for a very long time.

“You’re catching flies,” Courfeyrac says. “I know the feeling, though. It took a lot for me not to react in Sebastien’s presence.”

“I can see why he’s pissed,” Grantaire breathes.

“That’s not the half of it. Sebastien’s company is teetering. Digne Enterprises makes up a great deal of his net worth, and helps to keep his finances afloat with all the gambles he makes. He originally used to control 51 percent of the company because the other shareholders just didn’t want to sell their shares to him. Now that Enjolras controls the company — an even bigger stake than Sebastien could ever get — Sebastien’s going down, at least financially. He’s desperate. He’s realized that the people favor Enjolras over him, and he needs the company that his estranged son has in the palm of his hand.”

“What are you saying?”

“We’re in for some rough roads,” Courfeyrac says grimly. “I hate to be the naysayer here, but I think at this point Sebastien has only two options — court Enjolras, or crush him.”

“The former won’t work with Enjolras.”

“Which means that Sebastien will resort to the latter,” Courfeyrac says. “Something that, unfortunately, both he and Enjolras are very much accustomed to.”

“He won’t lay a finger on Enjolras,” Grantaire vows.

Courfeyrac looks into the rearview mirror and catches Grantaire’s eye. He smiles, but remains uncharacteristically silent. As the car radio continues to blare out a tinny pop song, Grantaire tucks the documents back into the folder and shifts against Enjolras’ side.

Les Amis won’t let anything happen to Enjolras. _Grantaire_ won’t let anything happen to Enjolras. He’ll rather die first.


	28. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do we do?” Chetta asks.
> 
> Combeferre sits heavily down on the couch next to Eponine. Stress lines his features, aging him more than his twenty-three years. “I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry all for not updating earlier. 
> 
> Remember how I talked about my sister and how she's the inspiration for Maryse? 
> 
> Well, going along with how fickle and ironic fate can be, she's now in the final terminal stages of ovarian cancer. The doctor gave her a few weeks to a few months left. As a result, it's been unbelievably hard to write anything in this fic until about a day or two ago. I apologize for the lapse of time. 
> 
> To Fiyerboq, I apologize that there is no e/R kiss coming yet. It WILL come. Promise :) Angst felt right for now, but the fluff is on its way! 
> 
> Thanks guys for the support. I really appreciate it.

Enjolras is lying on his bed with his back firmly plastered against the sheets, staring aimlessly up at the ceiling overhead. There’s a crack in the ceiling that he can’t even get fixed since he can’t afford anything anymore. It’s not a big crack, though. It will hold until he scrapes together the time to ask Feuilly about fixing the wretched line.

Wait a minute. That’s a joke. He isn’t poor anymore; he’s loaded. His mother has left him Digne Enterprises. The company alone could support all of the Amis for the rest of their lives and then some. Assuming Enjolras doesn’t run it into the ground, that is.

He doesn’t want to touch the money. He doesn’t want the company. In fact, he doesn’t want any more of this wretched world unless his mother comes back to him. He’s lost his brother, he’s lost his mother, and that’s two too many losses for a lifetime.

Agathe must be devastated. Naturally, Sebastien has banned Enjolras from going to the funeral. Somehow he’s got a restraining order against Enjolras, so that if he shows up at any point in time during the service, Louis has every right to eject him.

Grantaire and Courfeyrac have attempted to talk to him. It didn’t take all three of them much more than five minutes to start shouting at each other; at which point, Jehan and Bahorel came in and pulled the pair out. Enjolras hasn’t spoken to anybody else since, and he doesn’t care.

There’s a quiet knock at the door, and Combeferre’s gentle voice informs Enjolras that he and Eponine are back in town. It’s been three days since Enjolras last heard Combeferre’s voice, and he’s not interested. He loves his best friend, he loves all the people out there in the front room of the apartment, and he loves Grantaire; but there is no opening the door right now and facing the world. Not for Enjolras. Maybe not ever. He rolls over and slides his head under a pillow as the door cracks open.

He can sense Combeferre in the doorway, but he doesn’t even pretend to be asleep. He can’t summon the energy for a lie, but neither can he hold to the truth of reality right now.

Combeferre knows him too well. Rather than pushing, the other man sets something down on the dresser and walks out — judging from the soft clank, it’s a food-laden tray. The quiet click of the door shutting is the only announcement of his departure.

Enjolras rolls once more onto his back and resumes staring at the ceiling.

 

Life goes on in the most cruel way, Grantaire thinks.

It’s been three days since Maryse passed away, and in many ways, the longest three days of his life. Undoubtedly the same can be said of Enjolras.

They’re all scared and angry — they all knew Maryse, and liked her. More than that, though, Grantaire has never seen Enjolras like this. He’s always been strong; he’s always been able to just bounce back from whatever is hurting or frightening or depressing him. Courfeyrac is the glue that holds everything together and Combeferre is the foundation of the group, yes, but Enjolras is the pillar.

The pillar is cracking.

Enjolras hasn’t talked to anybody but him and Courfeyrac, and that one time, they argued. Grantaire feels his face turn hot every time he recalls the fight. He and Courf had used trite cliches because they couldn’t think of anything else, and Enjolras had returned with backhand sarcasm and bitterness. In turn, they’d jumped to desperate measures and tried to egg him into some emotion — _any_ emotion — and Enjolras had snapped.

 

_“We’re here for you, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says._

_“That’s nice,” Enjolras snaps. “But I don’t need your pity or your help. Just leave me alone.”_

_“You need to eat. Get out of your room.” Grantaire waves a hand at the walls, at the forgotten piles of books and papers, at Enjolras’ unanswered phone. “This isn’t —”_

_“You speak like you know what you’re talking about,” Enjolras says icily._

_“You think I don’t?”_

_“No.” Enjolras’ voice is cold and flat, and Grantaire tries not to let that slap in the face sting his heart._

_Courfeyrac jumps in, clearly sensing disaster. “Enjolras, we loved her too. You’re not the only one hurting. We get it. We want to help you.”_

_“I don’t need help.”_

_“Enjolras, love —” Grantaire begins, because he’s not above emotional blackmail. Not if Enjolras is going to starve himself to death and poison his own mind with his father’s bile. It seems to work, because Enjolras’ face twists in pain, but then there’s a shout outside from one of the neighbors, and the spell is broken. Enjolras glares, instead, and the stolen tenderness of the moment is ruined._

_“What do you call all this?” Courfeyrac asks disbelievingly. “You’re mourning, and that’s okay. Your mother just died. It’s fine not being a statue, Enjolras. It’s fine grieving, because this is a great loss! To everyone, but most of all to you. But she's gone, Enjolras, and we can't change that, no matter how much we would like to."_

_Enjolras shoots upright from where he’s been huddled under a blanket, and his face turns to the color of paper. “Get out.”_

_“Enjolras, this won’t —”_

_“I don’t care!” He’s shouting now, his voice reverberating around the room, and Grantaire takes a step back. “I don’t give a fuck, Courf, and I want you two to get out and leave me alone, right now!”_

_“We’re not —”_

_“GET OUT! OUT!”_

_The room’s pretty large, but it suddenly seems far too crowded to Grantaire. Before he realizes what’s going on, Bahorel is there, latching onto his sleeve and pulling him out of the bedroom. Jehan and Courf stumble out right on their heels. They’re barely out of the room before the door slams shut so hard that a hairline crack bisects the side of the doorframe._

 

It says a lot if Enjolras doesn’t even want to talk to Combeferre. He and Combeferre and Courfeyrac are best friends and have been for a very long time. Since they were in diapers, probably. But Combeferre alone is different. Combeferre and Enjolras are like soulmates, but in a brotherly, platonic way. They’re closer than blood brothers and bound by an oath stronger than anything else.

Anything else but death, maybe.

Combeferre backs out of Enjolras' room sans tray, and shakes his head at Courfeyrac's hopeful expression. Just like that, Grantaire can see the others visibly deflate.

"Did he say anything?" Bossuet ventures.

Combeferre shakes his head. His face looks placid, but his lips are pressed together and his forced smile is far too tight. "He was pretending to be asleep. It would be unwise to force him into doing things he doesn't want to do, so I decided not to even try. We have other things to talk about.”

Eponine holds up a wrinkled piece of paper, a grimace marking her lips. Bossuet raises a sheet of paper as well, and so do Bahorel and Feuilly. Jehan has another piece of paper under his fingertips, and he’s obsessively tracing the lines of the drawing that Grantaire has determinedly not looked at a second time. Cosette places her own paper face down on the table so she doesn’t look at it — a wise decision, since Grantaire has done the same with his own love note.

The drawings are of all of them in their different couple pairings — Eponine and Combeferre, Jehan and Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Victoire, Joly and Musichetta and Bossuet, Cosette and Marius, Bahorel and Celine — _what_ — and Grantaire with Enjolras. They’re not very detailed or beautifully rendered drawings, but they have technique enough that all of the Amis can clearly identify themselves. Among other details, Grantaire can pick out Marius’ freckles, Chetta’s waist-long hair, Bahorel’s distinctive eye scar, and Feuilly’s trademark hat. Every individual is labeled with their names; every piece of paper has been dropped in the mailbox or pinned to the front door of their separate addresses.

There isn’t any other information provided; in fact, there aren’t any threats, no subtle or aggressive forms of intimidation. Any more would be superfluous — as far as Grantaire is concerned, whoever is targeting the Amis knows what they look like, what their names are, and where they live. Criminals have done more with far less. It’s a scare tactic that, unfortunately, is working pretty well.

“Can we talk about how these people know where we live?” Feuilly asks.

“Can we talk about how these people know that Bahorel and Celine are dating before _I_ did?” Grantaire says, trying to break the tension for a second, because _seriously_ , he can’t wrap his head around the idea that one of his close friends and his own _sister_ have pulled the wool over his eyes. “Like, what the hell, dude? Way to not update me.”

Bahorel blushes, and Celine bites her lip but not before Grantaire sees her grin. “Big brother, it’s not our fault you’re unobservant.”

“It’s just a couple of dates,” Bahorel interjects. The smirk on his face, however, contradicts his innocuous statement, and Grantaire is unconvinced.

“Let’s please put aside the gossip and the sewing circle for a second,” Courfeyrac says, “and concentrate on the fact that our leader is out of commission while we’re all being targeted by some unknown foe? Or worse, Patron-Minette?”

“This might not be Patron-Minette,” Eponine says. “They don’t really go the sneaky route. They tend to kill first and then ask questions later. Usually.”

“Always a first time for everything,” Cosette points out.

“We can’t bring this to the police,” Marius says. “They won’t believe the gravity of the situation. They’ll think it’s just a harmless prank.” He mutters something under his breath that could be either Polish or Greek, Grantaire isn’t sure.

“What do we do?” Chetta asks.

Combeferre sits heavily down on the couch next to Eponine. Stress lines his features, aging him more than his twenty-three years. “I don’t know.” 


	29. Devil's Due

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Disturb Adrien and his friends,” Sebastien says. “Make them uncomfortable. Start with his closest circle — Luc Combeferre, Henri Courfeyrac, their paramours, and that worthless artist fag of his.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double chapter because you guys are awesome!

Montparnasse flips impatiently through the statements from his Cayman Islands bank. Once he’s done with them, he’ll shred them as is his custom. Normally, the minutiae of his activities calms him down and helps refocus his attention on upcoming Patron-Minette commissions, as Claquesous calls them, but not today. Not for the past couple of days, after Maryse’s passing.

He’s done all he needs to do. He doesn’t owe her anymore. And he certainly couldn’t care less about that spoiled anarchist brat of hers.

Grantaire’s scarf is sitting in his lap. It’s surprisingly wrinkle-free despite the number of times Montparnasse has bunched it up, tucked it into his jacket pocket, cuddled it against his chest. Yes, he’s pathetic, and borderline creepy. But nobody else needs to know. And for some torturous reason, Grantaire’s distinctive scent still clings to the fabric.

His cell phone buzzes, and he frowns when he sees Sebastien’s face pop up on his screen. The last thing he wants to do is talk to the asshole who made his wife’s life a misery. His finger hovers over the Ignore button, ready to slap down on it and flip Sebastien the proverbial bird.

Then again, the man is still a paying customer. He’s currently making Patron-Minette very wealthy right now. Not that it gives Sebastien power over any of them — especially not Montparnasse himself, fuck you very much — but for now he has to play nice because the man hasn’t yet outlived his usefulness.

With that decided, he utters a long-suffering sigh, catches up the phone, and answers it.

“Hello.” He takes care to make his voice sound especially sullen.

“Things have escalated,” Sebastien’s annoying voice babbles over the line. Montparnasse rolls his eyes. Adrien Enjolras may be an ingrate and an asshole and his chief romantic rival, but at least the punk sounds as easy as he looks on the eyes. He really can’t say the same about Sebastien.

“There’s always some emergency, according to you,” Montparnasse snorts. “What is it now?”

“My bitch wife left her company to Adrien,” Sebastien snarls. “Somehow she wrangled control and took it to him. He didn’t want to give it up to me, and his stupid little friends stopped him before I could persuade him otherwise.”

Montparnasse gives the empty room the finger. Sebastien can’t see it, but it certainly makes Montparnasse feel better about dealing with this son of a bitch. The man is a ruthless business tycoon, but his problem is that he underestimates what the people around him can do with the right kind of motivation. Like Maryse did.

“Sounds like you don’t have your affairs or your house in order,” he drawls. “What’s your point?”

“Disturb Adrien and his friends,” Sebastien says. “Make them uncomfortable. Start with his closest circle — Luc Combeferre, Henri Courfeyrac, their paramours, and that worthless artist fag of his.”

“Why should I?” Montparnasse asks, taking a deep breath to ignore that last dig. _Fag_. “It seems to me like you don’t have the money to pay us. Digne Enterprises is far greater at this point than Tholomyes Corporation.”

“I just deposited another two million in your account,” Sebastien says, cutting off the last bit of Montparnasse’s sentence. “If you harry the kids enough and I get Digne Enterprises back, you get another two. Do we have a deal?”

“Any fine print?” Montparnasse says, after a pause of deliberation.

“Don’t let it tie back to me,” Sebastien answers.

“Obviously,” Montparnasse retorts. “This is not our first time. What else?”

“Is killing them in the cards?” Sebastien asks.

That Montparnasse can do, when it comes to the triumvirate of friends — Maryse’s whelp, that four-eyed guy chasing Eponine, and the idiotically happy-go-lucky kid. But there’s also an unpleasant sensation that twists Montparnasse’s lungs at the thought of seeing the light fade out of Eponine’s eyes. Or even Grantaire’s. _Grantaire_.

“No,” he lies. “The police will investigate very closely if a body turns up after the slew of things happening to this group of kids. Unfortunately.”

“Have you targeted them all already?” Sebastien presses.

“Not the doctor kid or the wrestler, not yet. We haven’t done anything to your son yet, either.”

“Target them all. Make them jumpy, catch them off guard. Then I’ll make my proposition to Adrien myself. I want you to break them down so much so that he won’t dare say no to me.”

 _You fucker,_ Montparnasse wants to say. _All that’s in this for you is the money._

He determinedly tries to ignore the fact that he’s doing the exact same thing himself as this perverted scrap of humanity. Covering his ass. Getting revenge. Earning blood money.

He’s _different_ from Sebastien. He’s _better_. He’s just doing his _job_. Yes, that’s it.

“Gotcha,” he says, as carelessly as he can. “You sound like you’re past the mourning stage of your beloved wife. I must say that that was quick. Can I come to the funeral?”

The dial tone in his ear is Sebastien’s only response.

 

 


End file.
